


and yet, the horizons bring us here

by project_ecto



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Missed Chances, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Haikyuu!! Chapter 402: Final Chapter: Challengers, Red String of Fate, Relationship Study, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26835223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/project_ecto/pseuds/project_ecto
Summary: If Hajime and Tooru play out the scenes of their lives, they will see that the panorama of their days are stitched together by gentle hands and careful hearts, a catalogue of moments that hurt, that heal, that herald a time together instead of apart.—of what happens through the years and discovering that for them, ‘meant to be’ has never been a maybe but a certitude.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 57
Kudos: 390





	and yet, the horizons bring us here

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is about the passage of time in Hajime’s and Tooru’s shared existence, hence “horizons”, where we bear witness to sunsets and sunrises – how they stayed by each other’s sides through the years, not always in the way they hoped, but together no matter what happens and no matter how long it takes.
> 
> It is also the line at which the earth’s surface and the sky appear to meet, a tribute to the symbolism of Hajime as the rock (pillar of support, as enduring as the earth beneath your feet) and Tooru as the sky (always aiming high, towards the stars).
> 
> This is my love letter to iwaoi. I hope you’ll enjoy.

**_[ yet. ]_ **

_**—sendai, spring, 2012.** _

They never quite got the timing right.

In high school, Hajime planned to confess to Tooru. It was so embarrassing when he first considered the idea, too much like a page from those clichéd _shoujo mangas_ , but he had bided enough time with holding back his feelings, pretending it was merely an infatuation before coming to terms that it wasn’t as simple as that – it never had been.

It started out as a crush, and part of him hoped he would grow out of it (because how troublesome it is to fall in love with your best friend, who happens to be Oikawa Tooru), but he grew into it instead, falling harder, faster, deeper.

_(Tooru is cosmic, so distinct from the normalcy of the world, so it would make sense that Hajime’s feelings for him are inexplicably profound too.)_

He didn’t plan for his confession to be anything grand; it would just be him, Tooru, and the enormity of his emotions, spoken surely, sincerely, and more than anything else, nervously. Even if Hajime’s intuition tells him that Tooru feels the same way (if the way their relationship borders along the lines of something platonic and something more is anything to go by), this course of action still coils its merciless tendrils around his gut. It’s bizarre to imagine that he would be anxious around Tooru, but to put those words out in the open and bare his heart to him – no matter how well they understand each other’s souls – is a feat in itself.

But for all the talk about being nervous and hoping he wouldn’t screw up, Hajime never got his chance to confess.

For on the day he decides to tell his best friend that he has fallen in love with him, pride and vanity and all, Tooru finds himself a girlfriend.

Hajime finds out at the start of lunch break, Hanamaki and Matsukawa already with him to head to the cafeteria together once their dear captain arrives. When Tooru suddenly comes skidding to a stop in front of them and before Hajime can throw a comment about making them wait again, the setter tells them with a self-satisfied smile that, “Sorry! I can’t join you guys today, I’m having lunch with my girlfriend!”

The end of his sentence pitches just as Hajime’s heart drops.

_(They’ve always been connected by a red string of fate, the thread pooling between their feet and the ends of it curled around their little fingers. This time, Hajime stands rooted to the spot, sees it reeling in the other direction.)_

Hanamaki and Matsukawa react to the abrupt announcement of a supposedly thrilling piece of news with teasing quips and slaps on his back (but not before giving Hajime a sideways glance he doesn’t notice). Thinking back, Hajime is grateful for their enthusiastic response, because they had drawn attention away from how he was too overcome with shock to force any words out of his mouth, frozen in a bubble with a hundred questions and a thousand messy thoughts.

_(Everything else is white noise.)_

In one sentence, Tooru plunges him into a state of confusion, scatters his mind, and razes his plan to the ground before it can even come to fruition.

When he leaves and Hanamaki and Matsukawa notice his uncharacteristically quiet demeanour to ask if he was okay, concern lacing their voices, Hajime manages to work past the lump in his throat to lie about forgetting his wallet and mumble for them to go ahead without him.

He never joins them for lunch that day, in fact, he doesn’t think he can stomach anything after what happened. He does however, pass by the school field on an aimless roam where a group of guys are in the middle of a friendly game of soccer.

Suddenly craving for an outlet— _anything_ —to release the pent-up emotions roiling within him, Hajime steps onto the field and demands, “Let me play.”

He throws himself into a sport he hardly plays, losing himself to the speed of it. He focuses his attention on the demands on the game, dribbling the ball deftly, dodging attempts to tackle him, and kicking the ball with all the force his legs can manage.

Maybe if he plays hard enough, it won’t feel like his entire being is aching from heartbreak than from the game itself. Maybe if he concentrates hard enough, he won’t have to face the questions plaguing his mind.

The ball is secured between his feet as he blazes past the field for the umpteenth time, demanding as much game time as possible, and the net is getting closer, a point is within reach. Hajime’s eyes zero in on a corner of the net—desperate to score, desperate to feel _some_ form of victory on a day he had been so certain he’d win.

But his tunnel vision prevents him from noticing an incoming player from the periphery, who is sprinting towards him and sliding across the grass and before Hajime knows it, he is tackled to the ground, falling on his side in a graceless heap.

By the time he gathers himself, the ball is rolling away, a mockery of his reckless thoughts and pitiful actions. He’s still on the ground, as is his culprit who wears a cheeky grin on his face, and suddenly something in Hajime snaps—like the cord that holds his usually controlled disposition together gives way to let rage and frenzy rear its ugly head.

In the next split-second, Hajime scrambles up to throw a leg over the unsuspecting boy, pinning him to the ground and grasping him by the collar of his shirt—he yanks him up once, lifting his back off the dirt, and shoves him back down—green eyes consumed with fury and lips twisted into a snarl.

Hajime finally acknowledges the hurricane of emotions within him—it’s anger and hurt and confusion all fused into an unrecognizable mess—roused by the realization that the glimmer of hope had been a mirage all this time, that something he had been so sure about turned out to be his own wishful thinking.

He feels so _stupid_.

Did he read it wrong? Did he understand the tender gazes and lingering touches and intimate words, offered unabashedly in quiet moments, wrongly? Did he misunderstand the nature of their relationship, always existing under the surface of something fond and true?

_He feels so incredibly stupid._

“Hey…take it easy. It’s just a game,” a hesitant voice cuts through his frantic thoughts and breaks him out of his madness.

Hajime blinks and notices fear and alarm reflecting in the boy’s eyes, his stomach dropping at the knowledge of what’s done. Immediately, his fingers release their vice grip on his uniform and Hajime hurries off the boy, shame and guilt washing over him.

“Sorry…”

He curses himself as he hastens off the field, unable to lift his head to look at the expressions of shock and bewilderment directed at him.

His own actions horrify him, and he can’t believe he had been so overwhelmed with wrath and rashness—he, who would never let his emotions control him like that.

But Tooru, the very embodiment of an aster—brilliant and blistering—the boy he’s in love with, can strip him off his usual coherence, can pull the rug from under his feet and leave him breathless and bated, can hold his heart with love and cruelty and watch it beating as it bleeds through the cracks between his fingers.

Oh, of all the things that love can do to you, it tears your heart asunder.

* * *

**_—sendai, summer, 2012._ **

Hajime is distant when he tries to pick up the pieces in the aftermath. It’s his first heartbreak, so he doesn’t quite know how to deal with it except to piece together all the parts of him that still loves Oikawa Tooru into some semblance of a mended heart with sheer will and obstinacy.

_(Hurt him now, don’t hurt him again.)_

Slowly and surely, he fixes himself.

He will not, after all, allow himself to stay on his knees when he is still so full of promise and there are others relying on him to be the dependable ace that he is.

And as it turns out, Oikawa Tooru is not a good boyfriend.

His girlfriend breaks up with him mere months into the relationship and Tooru can’t even blame her. He spends most of his waking hours with volleyball than with her, their dates are few and far between if there are any during the week at all, and sometimes he sheepishly declines her offer to wait for him after practice so that he can walk home with Iwa-chan.

She’s a kind person, but their conversations are pleasant at best, contrived at worst. He’s always trying to find a trace of familiarity in their interactions, but she’s _too nice_ , and he’s too guarded. Eventually, he starts to wish for things he shouldn’t want – like a deeper, huskier voice when she greets him in the morning, like a sturdier body when they hug, like the tan, sweat-slicked skin that wakes him up with a start late one night.

So he’s relieved when she’s the one who puts an end to their sorry excuse of a relationship. He’s too much of a coward to do it himself, just like how he had been too much of a coward to acknowledge the real reason he accepted her confession.

He feels awful about leading her on, but nothing can outdo the whirlwind of emotions that comes with realizing he’s in love with Iwaizumi Hajime—something he tries to hide until it becomes something he can no longer ignore.

And Tooru is done with ignoring something so all-consuming. He lets it show in heartfelt words uttered between careful lips, bares it in deliberate touches and the ambiguity of his actions. If he thinks about it, these are not new tricks but old habits, cultivated over his adolescence until it shed its innocence. So maybe he already harboured feelings for his best friend, and just finally put a name to it.

He wonders if Iwa-chan feels the same visceral way.

Sometimes, the same wonderment almost pushes the reckless words out of his mouth.

“You’re not going back with your girlfriend today?” Hajime asks after Tooru suggests that they should get popsicles together after practice. He promises they won’t stay too late.

“Mmm,” Tooru hums dismissively, reaching into his sports bag to retrieve his towel and water bottle. He keeps his voice light, a defensive mechanism, even though they’re the only two in the clubroom and Iwa-chan can read him better than that. But this is one thing he can’t let his walls down for—especially not in front of him, not yet. “We’re not together anymore.”

Tooru misses the fleeting surprise that crosses Hajime’s features when he keeps his eyes trained on his belongings. For some reason, there’s a sense of trepidation with seeing the reaction he makes.

“You don’t seem very sad about it,” Hajime points out, and the natural tone of his voice (no sense of relief or morsel of annoyance), as if he could be talking about the weather, leaves Tooru none the wiser about his underlying feelings towards this new development.

“Well…we weren’t compatible,” Tooru states simply, reducing it to a vague remnant of the truth. He steps away from his locker to switch to his volleyball shoes at the bench, catching the flash of a frown that Hajime predictably shoots him with but dismissing it anyway.

“More like you weren’t a good boyfriend,” Hajime remarks, turning his back towards Tooru to change out of his uniform. He would know, since Tooru spends so much time away from her to be considered a thoughtful and doting boyfriend.

Tooru laughs nervously, caught for telling half-truths and neglecting his couple duties, as expected of Iwa-chan.

“Honestly, why did you get into a relationship when you’re not going to put effort into it?” Hajime asks offhandedly as he unbuttons his shirt.

It felt like he had been hit by a curveball when it happened, but Tooru hardly behaved any differently when he got a girlfriend, except to eat lunch with her or walk her home or go on weekend dates sometimes. They still spend a good part of their week together, and not just because of volleyball, and Tooru still showers him with the kind of attention he dedicates to Iwa-chan only, still treats him with boundless affection and harasses him with his insufferable antics.

It left Hajime confused and more importantly, relieved – at the fact that nothing has really changed between them and that maybe, just maybe, this so-called relationship is but a brief page in Tooru’s grand story. Perhaps that’s how he deals with his first heartbreak. If he’s remorseful for feeling like this, he keeps it to himself.

Tooru doesn’t need to ponder on Hajime’s question when the answer has been haunting his mind, waiting to be acknowledged (done), wanting to be said (not quite). Why didn’t he try to act like a proper boyfriend?

Well that’s easy. Because Oikawa Tooru can’t find it in himself to pour his heart and soul into things he doesn’t love.

In front of him, Hajime pulls his shirt over his head and folds it into a haphazard pile to put away, having asked a seemingly rhetorical question because he doesn’t press Tooru for an answer. For a fleeting moment Tooru catches sight of the scar on his shoulder, the one he got when he fell from a tree trying to retrieve their kite and was lucky it was his shoulder and not his head that struck a rock, until Hajime faces the locker again, back towards him.

It’s that back that both soothes his soul and afflicts him in his dreams. He’s enraptured by the expanse of it, remembering how it used to be scrawny but is now strong and sturdy and defined with all the right lines. It’s not merely its physical appeal that makes him fall, but that it encapsulates the very essence of Hajime—firm, unwavering, a reassuring presence Tooru can lean on.

Tooru wants to slot his chest up against that back, wants his heart to beat through Hajime’s skin and wonders, with vivid curiosity, what kind of truths Hajime’s own heartbeat will tell him.

“Iwa-chan, do you want to know why I accepted her confession in the first place?” he ventures.

“Why?” Hajime actually asks, facing him.

Because it scared him how falling in love with Iwaizumi Hajime had been as easy as it was, and that it was so immense it eclipsed his understanding. It scared him enough to accept the next confession he received, only to realize that there was no reason to be scared at all, because this is Hajime— _his_ Iwa-chan—who understands him like a _koto_ player understands his strings, and loving him is the most natural thing of all.

Hajime has his training shirt on now and is arching a brow at him, and Tooru forces the strings around his heart to loosen so that he can breathe easily, think clearly.

“Never mind, it’s not important anyway,” he says with a smile and a slight shake of his head.

There’s a pause before Hajime replies in that exasperated-but-not-really way of his, “You’re such a shitty guy.”

Tooru laughs it off and falls back into the familiar push-and-pull between them.

He is no longer afraid of his own feelings, but he doesn’t tell him yet.

Not yet.

_(The red string of fate feels a tug, then settles again.)_

* * *

**_—kyoto, spring, 2013._ **

In the radiance of spring, they visit Kyoto on a graduation trip. They’ll be leaving for countries far from home, so what better way to experience the authenticity of Japan than to bask in the tranquillity of traditional Kyoto?

They’ve spent a good part of the day sightseeing at the city’s popular spots, taking pictures with _maikos_ at Gion and picking their fortunes at Kiyomizudera. They feel like tourists in their own country, only in less of a rush even though time together is exactly what’s whittling away. When night time rolls around, their stomachs full from _nishin soba_ and chests filled with heedless delight, Hajime and Tooru while the remaining hours away in the lively streets of Higashiyama.

“So…we’re really leaving in a couple more months huh,” Tooru is the first to acknowledge the elephant in the room once they make a stop at a small resting area at the top of a long flight of steps. It’s not an unpleasant topic, just an inevitability they both wish didn’t feel as heartrending as it is.

“Yeah…” Hajime replies, not knowing what else to say. It’s only a matter of time before they go their separate ways, and confronting the reality of it now is…bittersweet.

But Tooru carries on blithely, gripping the stone railing with his arms outstretched and leaning on his heels. The familiar teasing edge in his voice comforts Hajime somewhat.

“Bet you wished you studied English harder.”

“Shut up,” Hajime snorts, because he is right. But it doesn’t stop him from retorting, “How’s _your_ Spanish?”

Not passing up the opportunity to one-up his best friend, Tooru rights himself in an instant and answers with all the smugness he can muster, “ _Tengo confianza en mis habilidades._ ”

“Show off,” Hajime clicks his tongue and looks away. There’s a small smile hiding behind the acceptance of defeat that Tooru doesn’t miss. They lapse into a comfortable silence again, accompanied by the chatter of locals and tourists in the background. Their little pit-stop overlooks the old-fashioned roads of Higashiyama, cobbled streets flanked by wooden shop houses with tiled roofs, the orange glow of the streetlamps dyeing the scene below in gentleness.

It is nothing like the flush of emotions rising within him.

“I’m nervous though,” Tooru admits, facing the front again so that the throngs of people below distracts him from his clammy hands. “Excited, but also nervous. Argentina is so different from Japan, I wonder if I’ll be able to adjust well enough.”

He’s under no illusion that he’s about to embark on a daunting journey. The mere idea of surrounding himself with so much unfamiliarity is enough to give him the jitters. Up till now, Tooru’s always had a comforting and steady presence by his side, whether it was to make new discoveries or overcome formidable challenges with. But soon, the presence he’s grown to love will exist four hours in the past and thousands of kilometres away.

He knows he won’t be truly alone, but absence, he finds out, is a crippling thought.

“And it’s the first time we’ll be so far apart,” he finishes quietly.

“Four hours isn’t that bad,” Hajime remarks coolly, sensing a shift in the air between them and trying not to fall down that path because he’s already on a trip with Tooru alone and he doesn’t know where he will stop if he starts. But Tooru wants honesty tonight.

“You know what I mean.”

Hajime does, and he supposes this is how Tooru needs him, a quiet reminder against the shadows of fear. He takes in a breath, fills his lungs with the cool night air to say, “You’ve made your choice right? It’s scary and uncertain and sometimes tougher than you can imagine and maybe you’ll even wonder why you’re doing what you’re doing but _you know_.”

In all the years he’s known him, Hajime is certain that Tooru loving volleyball is a fundamental truth to his being and everything he does for it is out of love and ambition and uninhibited passion.

“So maybe you’ll forget sometimes, but I know you won’t let yourself be lost for too long,” he continues—unworried—because Tooru, with his single-minded purpose that will undoubtedly bring him to greater heights, will be alright. “This is your dream, and you’re not Oikawa Tooru if you don’t conquer them all and come up on top.”

Tooru finds himself hanging on to every word, offered so sincerely by someone who usually layers them with mild annoyance or aggressive concern. These are the words he will keep close to his heart, and this image of Hajime, open and dear, he will sear into his mind. As for the comfort that comes along with it, it is part of his life and all of his soul.

“And I don’t know, I’m pretty excited about America,” Hajime finishes with a shrug.

All of a sudden, Tooru is assaulted by the undercurrent of desperation because while he’s aware that their paths are diverging, he will not accept the fraying of fate’s strings. He will take Hajime’s presence in whatever form it comes in, over the phone and written in words and all.

“Promise me we’ll stay in touch,” Tooru urges, and ignores the way it sounds like a plea. He meets Hajime’s eyes and holds his gaze with earnestness. “That we’ll call often and tell each other about our days, our problems, anything.”

His insistence catches Hajime a little off guard, but he matches it with conviction and a dash of his usual gruffness.

“Of course dumbass. You’ll probably be a little shit if I so much as miss a text from you.”

This is what Tooru will miss. Brusque words spoken by a slightly husky voice, typical of their interactions and which Tooru fears will soon lose both familiarity and frequency in time to come. This easy banter that’s sometimes followed by a smack is something he never expected to wish he’d have more time for. He wants to cry because he will miss this—this he will never find with anyone else, this he wants as an abiding surety in their relationship, not as memories and memories only.

“Don’t forget about me Iwa-chan,” Tooru asks of him, and in an attempt to stave off the prickling in his eyes, he adds with light-heartedness forced through a smile, “I mean, you probably can’t, since I’ll be famous and all but—”

Tooru’s breath catches in his throat. He can quell his truest sentiments under false nonchalance and feigned dismissal but when all is said and done, and in the face of Hajime’s profile haloed by amber, his heart longs to sing the truth.

“Don’t forget about me.”

“Idiot. As if I could,” Hajime answers, fondly exasperated. “And I should be saying that to you, since you know, you’ll be too busy being famous and all that—”

“I could never forget about you,” Tooru cuts in, something fierce in his voice and eyes. “Never.”

They can be oceans apart and time zones away but he will always come back to Hajime, will always find a home in the boy he’s in love with.

Unknowingly, he has leaned into Hajime’s space, like seeking understanding and perhaps something more, and Hajime is not moving away. It can be so easy to close the gap between them when their eyes are locked in quiet anticipation, frozen in time and shielded from the muffled happenings around them. And would it be so unthinkable for them to finally acknowledge the sea of emotions that exists as gentle waves between them but is now a rising tide crashing onto the shore?

But so what if they do?

If their relationship evolves into something more on this spring day, could they sustain it over distance and time? Would they put a perfectly forged friendship on the line at this dividing point in their lives? And if distance and time are too harsh a reality, would not only love be lost but friendship as well?

As hesitation creeps into their veins, a loud crash from the streets below pierces the air and just like that, the moment is lost. Startled, Hajime and Tooru whip to the front to see someone hastily picking up a curb-side sign board that he had unintentionally knocked over as his friends nurse bouts of laughter around him.

“That surprised me,” Tooru says a little breathlessly, keeping his eyes in front.

“Yeah…” Hajime agrees and doesn’t dare to look at Tooru again.

The uncertainty of the future curls its tendrils around unsteady hearts in the present and two boys, who will one day look back on this moment with regret and wistfulness, stand side by side, hands settled forlornly on the railing. The meagre space between their barely touching pinkies might as well have been a canyon but they don’t cross the imaginary line to chase risk or tempt fate because this is okay and this is safe.

_(Even though it’s not enough.)_

* * *

**_—san juan, winter, 2014._ **

At the end of Hajime’s first year in university, he visits Tooru in Argentina.

It’s a miracle he managed to scrape enough money for the plane ticket, but Tooru had been demanding to know when he’d visit (even promising him free accommodation and meals) and Hajime had no pressing commitments (no assignments and no one he’d rather spend time with), so it would be regrettable not to go.

Their first year leaves them relatively unscathed. Granted, they experienced their highs and lows, that much more challenging with being in new environments, but all things considered, they thought they fared pretty well. Their own passions kept them going – not always the easiest thing to do, but always the reason to keep moving forward. And they picked up English and Spanish rather quickly, but nonetheless looked forward to the familiarity of conversing in Japanese during their regular calls.

Speaking of which, their promise to stay in close contact was faithfully kept. Tooru makes an effort to talk to Hajime almost every day, whether it’s to text him a simple _‘have a good day Iwa-chan!’_ or to launch into a long update about what’s happened in his oh-so-eventful days.

Hajime in turn, shares with him pieces of information about his time in California, from the mundane to momentous ones. He goes as far as to create an Instagram account after Tooru’s incessant niggling about the matter, just so his best friend doesn’t have to worry about him being dead in a ditch, or so he claims.

But their beatific days are not without its troubles. When despair and loneliness afflict him, the first person Tooru can think to call is Hajime, who never fails to provide the kind of comfort that clears his mind and calms his heart, sometimes through a call that lasts through the night, their sleepy voices the first thing they hear the next morning. And Hajime, whose times of vulnerabilities are quieter but no less apparent to Tooru, knows he can count on his partner to cheer him up with an easy smile and the most ridiculous pick-me-ups.

They might not be by each other’s side physically, but still very much in each other’s lives.

And now that they’ve met again, it feels like falling back into an age-old routine.

From the moment he picked Hajime up, Tooru has been beyond exhilarated as he gives Hajime a tour of his humble one-bedroom apartment and as he brings him around San Juan, from the stadium where his club practises to his favourite haunts. He’s all smiles and laughter, a look that Hajime has been waiting far too long to see in person.

Even as they’re revelling in the thick of a gastronomy festival in Parque de Mayo, it’s all Hajime sees on Tooru’s face. They’ve stuffed themselves with the smorgasbord of meat at the fair, which according to Tooru is the perfect way to enjoy San Juan’s local delicacies in a single location.

Having eaten to their heart’s content, they find themselves unwittingly pulled into the upbeat music a group of buskers are playing in the park’s plaza, where a sculpture stands in the middle of a fountain circled by low seats. Tooru seems to be caught up in the merriment of it all, and Hajime doesn’t resist when Tooru tugs him by the hands exclaiming, “Come on Iwa-chan!” because the song he doesn’t understand is inviting and he can’t help but gravitate towards Tooru’s captivating presence the same way he lets himself fall for him each and every time.

There’s already a sizeable crowd dancing to the music by the time they join in, and Hajime and Tooru soon lose themselves to the rush of ecstasy, the beat of the song carrying their movements until they’re both laughing at the amateur dance moves they’ve picked up at parties and bars, until they’re touching by the hands and waist.

Somewhere in the careless rhythm of the evening and the dizzy sway of bodies, Tooru has his palms on Hajime’s forearms, and Hajime own hands have drifted to the curve of Tooru’s waist. They’re vaguely aware that the buskers’ song is reaching its end, the singer’s voice rising to a crescendo, accompanied by the flourish of a vivacious drumbeat.

But no matter how deafening the music is, or how much the flurry of movement distracts them, all they can focus on is each other, faces flushed from the _fernet con coca_ that Tooru insists Hajime try, hearts thrumming from the way they hold each other’s gazes—breathless and waiting—and the lingering touch that sears their skin.

Tooru’s chest rises and falls with each quick breath, and before anything can tell him otherwise, he slides nervous fingers up Hajime’s arms to settle over his shoulders, solid and sturdy under his jacket. The beginnings of a new song flow into the background, seemingly muffled by the arresting presence of each other. Hajime’s fingers twitch where they rest on Tooru’s waist, and his mouth grows dry when he can’t look away from his hazel eyes and barely parted lips.

A year of separation releases a year’s worth of longing all at once.

Hajime is reminded that Tooru is a beauty on this cool winter’s evening, cast in the mirth of San Juan with anticipation tucked in the corners of his eyes.

The red string of fate is almost taut between them.

Almost.

Amongst the boisterous crowd, someone stumbles into Tooru in his excitement, lurching him towards Hajime who grips him by the elbows and digs his foot into the ground to right themselves. The culprit, a red-faced local who looks about their age, spins around to offer them a careless grin and cheery apology, clearly already under the influence of alcohol.

Tooru returns it with a good-natured smile and Hajime doesn’t know if it’s because the guy’s too inebriated or people here are generally open and sociable that he abruptly whisks Tooru away to join him and his friends in dancing to the next song. In a second, his partner is yanked out of his hands and into a circle of high-spirited strangers who also beckon him over with bright smiles and gleeful laughter.

Hajime knows this is all in the name of good fun, but he’s not feeling very generous tonight. While he appreciates the friendliness of San Juan, he’s well aware that they don’t have a lot of time together, and Hajime wants to monopolize every minute of whatever time he has with Tooru, knows that it is selfish and chooses to be so anyway.

His eyes cut to Tooru’s expression, which is a mixture of sheepish and awkward acquiescence. Yeah, he decides he doesn’t want to share.

“ _Sorry but he’s with me tonight,_ ” Hajime says in English to the guy who had knocked into them.

The man shakes his head and hands at Hajime, still beaming despite not understanding, and raises his voice over the music, “ _No hablo inglés!_ ”

Doesn’t matter.

“ _Él es mío esta noche_ ,” Hajime says the first translation he can think of. Surprise is evident on the stranger’s face when he realizes that this Asian boy has spoken Spanish right back at him. It might not have been in the right intonation, but the meaning behind his words—more like a declaration—is enough to make him go wide-eyed. Out of the corner of his eye, Hajime notices that Tooru is similarly stunned into silence.

Before anyone can say anything more, Hajime pulls Tooru away by the elbow, escaping the clamorous crowd but not from the thunderous beat of his heart or the swell of pride in his chest. What’s there to be proud of he wonders, when he’s merely borrowing time with someone he thinks doesn’t belong to him in the first place.

He calms down when they’re a safe distance away from the unbothered festival-goers, the buskers’ song now playing like background music. He doesn’t know why, but he braces himself for the inevitability of—

“You brushed up on your Spanish pretty well didn’t you, Iwa-chan?” Tooru teases, peering at Hajime who averts his gaze resolutely. He kept it a secret at first—learning Spanish, just so he could savour the alarm on Tooru’s face when he deviously slipped a clever phrase into their conversation one day.

So yeah, he took an elective in his first year, out of sheer competitiveness or a desire to feel closer to Tooru, but it’s not something he wants to dwell too much on. (When he does, he inadvertently arrives at the conclusion that it’s merely a pitiful attempt at staying in the orbit of one Oikawa Tooru, like flying too close to the sun.)

“Wanted to pull up my grade,” Hajime offers with a one-armed shrug as an explanation. He starts on a leisurely pace to nowhere in particular, with Tooru falling into step beside him.

“Do you _know_ what you said?” Tooru probes after a moment and the curious lilt in his voice is decidedly not something he tries to hide. _He is mine tonight_ —is what Hajime had said, practically proclaimed, and Tooru lets himself hope that it was a deliberate choice of words.

“Yeah…it’s not the best translation, but it got the point across,” Hajime answers, ambiguously enough. He feels called out, because he _does_ know what he said, and while it might have been the first impulsive thought that came to mind, he had meant it.

“It sure did,” Tooru agrees, a gratified smile playing on his lips. But he is greedy—for many things in his life but never quite as much as for Hajime. Stopping, he turns to face his friend, who commits the mistake of locking eyes with him, puzzled by the sudden halt. Tooru asks, shy of a prayer, “Say it again. In Japanese.”

Hajime blinks in surprise, caught off guard by the unexpected request that sounds like an invitation more than anything else. Tooru regards him purposefully, and hope glimmers like gold in the russet of his eyes. It looks like he’s waiting.

Hajime doesn’t forget what had transpired minutes before, a fuzzy melody distant in his ears, Tooru’s rosy face a picture of beauty, their hands like fire through the fabric of their clothes. It’s an overture to everything Hajime’s ever wanted with the boy he’s left his heart with, but he’s reminded of a time when he thought he had taken the right turn, only to realize that he’d been driving straight towards the edge of a precipice.

He’s made a mistake before, what if he makes it again?

“’Believe I said… you don’t want this troublesome guy around,” he chooses to say, and by extension, chooses his own undoing.

Before him, Tooru is rendered speechless by Hajime’s insouciant jibe, so jarring against the tenderness he thought this moment held. But it seems like he is mistaken, so he lets their conversation devolve into a banter, easy and familiar.

“You’re the worst!" he accuses, marching off with an indignant huff. “I’m gonna leave you here! See if you can go back by yourself!”

His reaction, a petulance that brings about a sense of relief, makes Hajime chuckle. He doesn’t think about his cowardice, only watches the retreating figure of Tooru’s back, shoulders squared and hands balled at his sides. Soon, Hajime realizes that he might actually be serious about deserting him, because he’s still stalking away, no sign of stopping.

“Hey—wait! You’re not actually gonna…” Hajime shouts after him, and breaks into a jog to catch up with Tooru. “Oikawa!”

He only stills when Hajime catches his wrist, fingers clasped around sleeve and skin, his index finger pressed against the line of his palm. Tooru’s heart skips a beat, and even as Hajime’s hand is smoothed over his pulse point, it is scarcely noticeable over the sudden intimacy of the touch.

As quickly as he had reached for Tooru, Hajime releases his wrist, feeling self-conscious and avoiding startled brown eyes to say in a lowered voice, “I don’t know how to take the bus. You better not leave me here.”

Somewhat subdued but still a little peeved, Tooru retorts, “Then be nicer.”

“I’m plenty nice,” Hajime counters, following Tooru as he leads them on the way back to his one-bedroom apartment.

“There’s room for improvement.”

“Don’t be annoying about it.”

* * *

**_—sendai, spring, 2015._ **

Hajime and Tooru find themselves reunited with Hanamaki and Matsukawa during spring break of the following year.

The atmosphere is something they have sorely missed, the four of them lazing in Matsukawa’s living room in varying degrees of sobriety, having enjoyed one another’s much welcomed company over cheap beer and expensive _sake_.

Hanamaki is the worst of them, utterly drunk into oblivion and currently sprawled in an L-shape on one side of Matsukawa’s coffee table. Hajime is next, but he at least had the sense to use the couch as a support, leaning his heavy head on the curve of the furniture. As it turns out, Hanamaki still couldn’t beat Hajime in arm wrestling, so he thought he had a shot at beating him in a drinking game. He was proven wrong, but not for lack of trying, and Hajime did end up semi-conscious from the challenge.

Matsukawa and Tooru fare markedly better, and while the latter sports a pink tinge on his cheeks and neck, both are still lucid and delighting in the unglamorous condition their friends are in, or rather Tooru is.

“What are you doing?” Matsukawa asks as he watches Tooru snap picture after picture of Hajime’s ruddy face, a feat he might not accomplish if the boy were awake.

He captures a final one, immortalizing Hajime’s drunken state in his phone.

“Sabotage footage,” he grins tipsily, rather pleased with how the photo turned out. Hajime’s cheek is pressed against the leather, his shoulder slumped into the couch. There’s a slight crease in his eyebrows, put there by the alcohol in his bloodstream and the victory of a self-indulgent contest with a friend that even California cannot offer. His face is a lovely red, the colour high on his cheekbones not only because of the _sake_ , his hair mussed where it meets the couch.

Matsukawa peers at the so-called blackmail material, commenting, “I don’t know, he actually looks kinda good here. Are you sure you’re not just taking pictures of him for your own safekeeping?”

Tooru shields his phone from Matsukawa’s prying eyes and faces him again from across the coffee table, pulling his legs in to sit cross-legged. He peeks at the picture one last time and begrudgingly agrees that fine, Iwa-chan does have a certain type of handsomeness to his intoxicated features. But it doesn’t mean Tooru has to outwardly admit it.

“Don’t be absurd Mattsun, he looks like a caveman,” he says instead and pockets his phone.

The taller friend brings his glass of mixed _sake_ to his lips, hiding an amused smile behind the drink, and takes a sip. Somewhere on his right, Hanamaki groans in agony. He sets his drink down with a clink and rests his chin on curled fingers to regard his former captain with interest.

“So, how’s our dear captain’s love life in Argentina?” he brings up, very much aware of what he’s asking. After all, he’s been drinking _sake_ mixed with orange juice for most of the night, the clever bastard.

It’s obvious that Tooru was not expecting that line of questioning when surprise flashes in his eyes and asks, in lieu of an answer, “What’s up with that all of a sudden?”

But it shouldn’t be that shocking when they’ve already talked about everything else, from the demands of university life and the thrilling experiences of studying abroad to the part-time jobs they squeeze into their busy schedules and the rigour of volleyball. So all that’s left is this.

“It’s a reasonable question,” Matsukawa asserts with a lazy arch of his eyebrow. “With how popular you are and being in a foreign country.”

Tooru laughs shortly. “I’m hardly popular.”

Recognizing an attempt at evasion when he sees one, Matsukawa steers the conversation back, “Are you seeing anyone?”

The setter inhales. He forgot Matsukawa can drive a person into a corner sometimes. It’s not a bad thing in this case, but the former middle blocker has caught him staring at Hajime before, with a gaze that lingers—perhaps for a second too long and with a need too strong. And he’s a perceptive one. Tooru just feels queasy about confronting something he has been leaving grey for so long.

“No.”

“Argentinian folks not your type?” he jokes, folding his arms on the table.

“They’re nice, and some of them are _really_ good-looking,” Tooru explains, tilting his near-empty glass on its base. Matsukawa waits for a ‘but’ and Tooru delivers it. “But I don’t have time for a relationship and before you say anything, I went out with people before and I just didn’t find anyone I really like.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Tooru answers easily. This, he doesn’t have to lie about. “Volleyball takes up most of my waking hours it’s—”

“No,” Matsukawa interrupts, voice even. “You sure about not finding anyone you like?”

Tooru should never have let himself forget that Matsukawa Issei is someone who can drive a person into a corner. He didn’t think he would be on the receiving end of that again. This is how he knows he’s trapped and he wonders if there is any point to answering when they both understand the insinuation behind his words and the truth sits blatantly before them.

_(He did find someone he likes, maybe not in Argentina, but the issue of where and when is secondary.)_

Suddenly, the truth speaks.

“’Kawa…you skipped a round just now…” Hajime slurs, stealing both of their attention. Tooru twists his neck to face him, only to be met with Hajime’s oblivious face, the furrow in his eyebrows deeper than before. He doesn’t say anything after that, merely grunting in discomfort until he settles again.

When they conclude that he’s slipped into another stupor, Matsukawa waits for Tooru to look at him before asking, “You know he’s not seeing anyone too right?”

He doesn’t answer, and eventually slides his eyes away.

Of course he knows. He knows more than that in fact, like how Hajime has to be coerced before he reveals to Tooru that yes, he’s got a date this weekend and no, it’s nothing to write home about. There are casual dating and experimental hook-ups (few—but there), but at the end of the day, they’re just that – pit-stops along the way that don’t amount to anything. Tooru finds some warped sense of comfort in that because even if he can’t have Hajime that way, at least they don’t mean anything.

And when they meet again, in the flesh, they’re always untethered, offered to each other like a familiar song. In the two years they’ve left Japan, they might have let others into their lives but have always left their hearts in the hands of the boy from Sendai.

“Are you ever going to tell him?”

Matsukawa doesn’t let him off yet, because he’s witnessed yearning up close and he thought time would wear down a bit of that adolescent longing but it only seem to exacerbate it. He knew it the moment they picked Hajime up at the airport and Tooru had barrelled straight towards him, engulfing him in a hug that lingered—too long and too fond—with an ache in his eyes that was ten times more tender and a hundred times more acute.

“It’s not that simple,” Tooru claims softly, dropping his gaze to the melting ice cubes in his glass.

They’ve had chances, always given up, and now he’s afraid to find out why Hajime hesitates. For him, uncertainty and fear are like towering walls blocking his path.

“Not saying it is. Just asking if you’re going to do it,” Matsukawa repeats, acknowledging that whatever reasons they’re holding themselves back for, they’re either too simple or profound for him to comprehend. The bond between the two of them has always been somewhat of an enigma from the outside angle after all.

Tooru’s reticence eventually makes Matsukawa withdraw. There’s only so much you can do before you leave it to the gods or the two fools in love.

“You know at some point, you’re going to have to just rip the band aid off and you might even find that there isn’t a wound to begin with,” he says with finality, ignoring the baffled expression that Tooru throws at him. Matsukawa pushes himself away from the table to stretch his legs, then jerks a thumb at their pink-haired friend to say, “Anyway, I’m going to bring Makki to the spare room before he gives himself a cramp sleeping like that.”

He proceeds to manoeuvre Hanamaki’s limp body to sling a dead arm over his shoulders and wraps an arm around his waist to lead him to the spare room, with the drunkard making several sounds of protest that rouses Hajime from his alcohol-induced coma.

“’Kawa,” he slurs, pushing himself off the couch to sit facing Tooru. He blinks blearily, allowing his vision to focus on his friend but doesn’t catch the mask of a smile he quickly puts on. Somewhere from the back, he vaguely hears Matsukawa and Hanamaki shuffling away. “What’re you talking ‘bout with Mattsun?”

“Nothing to worry your little head over,” Tooru breezes, his frivolity an easy sentry against questions he is not ready to hear the answers for.

Hajime clicks his tongue out of habit. “Shittykawa.”

The dark blush on his face complements the almost irritable way the nickname rolls off his tongue. Tooru finds this rare version of Hajime, clouded and unguarded, remarkably endearing. “You’re going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow morning. For someone who studies in the US, I’m surprised your tolerance isn’t higher.”

“Ugh…I don’t wanna hear you talk right now,” Iwaizumi groans, dropping his face into his palm to rub at his eyes. He’s well aware of the wealth of opportunities to get wasted in California, hell he’s had a few unglamorous moments before, but he’s not a party animal. He doesn’t seek out frat parties or raves to get shit-faced drunk so no, he hasn’t cultivated some kind of god-like tolerance to alcohol. He’s _adequate_ – Matsukawa’s _sake_ is just strong and Hanamaki doesn’t know how to quit while he’s ahead.

Tooru shakes his head, pretending to be wounded. “We meet again after months and this is how you treat me? Cold.”

Senses dulled from the drinking, Hajime mistakes Tooru’s feigned hurt as the truth and frowns adorably as he says curtly, “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I’ll listen to you talk all you want tomorrow,” Hajime promises because even in his headiness, he wants to remember the time he is not allowed when they’re apart, wants to pay attention to the shape and sound of Tooru, and he can’t manage that in this state – that much he knows.

Tooru finds this rare version of Hajime, clouded and unguarded, as heart-warming as a crackling fireplace, as assuring as the ground beneath his feet. (It doesn’t yet split open.) Tooru finds it almost safe enough.

He pulls himself closer to Hajime, their knees almost touching, and leans in. He searches Hajime’s dark green eyes and speaks into the space between them that hums with careful expectation, “Even if I all I can tell you are reckless truths?”

If they keep this up, if Hajime keeps tugging on the red string, Tooru will follow. He will chase after its tightness and trip over his own feet, breathless with laughter by the time it leads him to Hajime. He wonders if he should – after all, they didn’t let the bonds of their friendship fray, and the tenderness they have for each other still exists, so perhaps it is possible to venture past the limbo they always seem to find themselves in.

Nothing’s changed after all this time apart, so Tooru toys with the idea of pushing beyond the boundary, distance be damned.

“Oikawa…you’re close,” Hajime murmurs, involuntarily leaning back when he realizes how small the space between them has become.

Tooru’s voice drops to a whisper and he’s close enough to smell the _sake_ on Hajime’s lips, “Am I? Do you want me to be closer?”

“Wha…?”

There’s too much alcohol in his blood to think clearly, too much between them to pick apart. He doesn’t understand why Tooru is gazing at him with wanting, hopeful eyes—

“I’m saying…”

_(…that I want to kiss you, bring you home and call you mine, do everything lovers do…but not like this—not when you won’t remember.)_

In a sudden bout of lucidity, Tooru lowers his head in resignation and laughs ruefully at the absurdity of his thoughts and at the kiss he doesn’t take.

He moves away to put careful distance between them and looks up again to see Hajime’s head tilted in confusion, cheeks red from the alcohol and other dangerous circumstances. He is certain he is the same.

With a defeated sigh, Tooru confesses with a wry smile to the boy who will only have fuzzy memories of this while he will be tormented by the clarity of it, “You are going to be the death of me, Hajime.”

Spring leaves them no closer than they want to be.

Spring leaves them another year older, but not another year wiser.

* * *

**_—irvine, fall, 2015._ **

Their relationship is like the Sanddorn balance, a quivering structure made out of thirteen palm ribs delicately balanced on their tips, the entire assemblage held together by a single white feather.

Between Hajime and Tooru there are gazes that are too fond but averted, words that mean more than the definitions they’re assigned but are left in the open in their ambiguity, feelings that run deep, almost branding their bones, but are rarely allowed to seep through the cracks in their exterior.

If the words are too gentle, they’re followed by a diverting laugh or a brusque insult that doesn’t bite. And if their gestures flirt with the idea that intimacy and telepathy have always been their thing, they’re countered with pretence built on a shaky tower of denial. They play on demarcated lines, and like creatures of habit, never stray too far.

A Sanddorn balance, precariously in equipoise.

And all it takes is the removal of a single white feather for the fragile art piece to come crashing down.

Except for them, the thing that tips the scale is nothing as light as a feather, nothing as gentle.

It happens when they’re in the middle of a seemingly routine video call six months after that trip back to Sendai. Hajime never would have guessed that the tipping point comes so suddenly and violently.

“I’m learning how to make my own _carbonada criolla_ ,” Tooru’s saying now, recounting his most recent attempt at cooking his own meals to Hajime through his laptop.

He had been a little late to the video call tonight, texting Hajime to give him a few more minutes before he connected, filling the screen with his ‘watch the skies’ t-shirt that has a cartoon alien head floating above a similarly-styled forest and diving into their conversation like no time was lost.

“And how did that turn out?” Hajime asks with a slight smirk, knowing how much success Tooru has in the kitchen, or lack thereof. The only reason he doesn’t just eat take-out food is because the _abuela_ who lives in his block prepares some of the most delicious home-cooked dishes for him.

“It was a bit dry, but edible,” Tooru admits and senses a snarky comment coming his way, or least Hajime is thinking it. “We can’t all be master chefs like you, but at least I’m improving!”

The UCI student is no master chef, but between the two of them, he’s not the one who ends up with dishes that are too salty or too bland, that sometimes risk setting off the smoke alarm. Hajime has more culinary experience and skill and he dares to say he can whip up decent meals, if his roommate’s approval is any attestation. And fine, he’ll give credit where it’s due – the pictures of the home-cooked meals that Tooru sends him have seemed more appetizing recently.

“You’ve got some ways to go,” Hajime can’t help but jab playfully.

“Don’t be so smug,” Tooru counters, smiling deviously. “Maybe you should cook for us the next time we meet, then we’ll see if—”

“ _Che, ¿pensé que tenías alfajor?_ ” someone cuts him off and it’s not so much the sound of another Spanish voice that surprises Hajime even though he knows for a fact that Tooru lives alone but the sight of a tall, well-built young man at the door, with short dark hair messily set, the lines of his abs and sharp V of his hips undeniable even through the static lines of the screen.

His sudden appearance clearly startles Tooru too, who jerks around to hiss urgently at the half-dressed stranger—“ _Estoy ocupado!_ ”—before whipping back to half-close his laptop screen in a rush.

But whatever there is to see and know from that, Hajime already understands.

“ _Bien, pero ¿dónde está el..._ ”

Hajime doesn’t see it, but he hears Tooru scrambling off his seat to chase the guy away, whispering “ _más tarde!_ ” fiercely as he hurries him out of the room and closes the door, locking it this time.

After some quiet shuffling, with which Hajime’s thoughts are the loudest, Tooru opens the laptop fully and appears before Hajime again, fumbling with coming up with an explanation, embarrassment written across his features.

“Sorry, that was uh…I was just—”

Clearly, it’s making him uncomfortable and Hajime supposes it’s a bit hard to disclose the truth without sounding crude about it.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to explain,” he saves him the need, not really keen on hearing it himself because nothing he can say would be euphemistic enough for the truth.

“Okay. Yeah…okay,” Tooru nods sheepishly and it’s amazing how quickly the tenor between them has turned awkward. Thankfully, Tooru slides into his chirpy demeanour, hoping his blithe smile and the change in topic would dissipate the awkward tension, “Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, I was saying you should cook for us next time. What do you think Iwa-chan? Are you confident?”

“I guess I could,” he replies noncommittedly, although the prospect of cooking for the two of them should thrill him more.

Their conversation carries on, the prior disturbance acknowledged but swept under the carpet to join every other thing that’s already hidden there. Except for Hajime, there is no more space for another tiresome truth under the old fabric.

Hajime wishes the interruption didn’t make him fly into a panic like that. He wishes Tooru would stop acting like he got caught red-handed. Because it only meant that there was something to be ashamed about. And there is nothing, isn’t there?

Perhaps that is what ruins him the most. Tooru can do whatever he wants, sleep with whoever he wants. Because even if Hajime can find reprieve in the intricacy of their bond, it remains a fact that Tooru does not belong with him in all the ways he wants him to, that he cannot have Tooru in the way he yearns for.

But he has been practical—they’re healthy young men after all—and if they’re not allowed love and release with the one person who matters, then they will settle for a cheap substitute with people who don’t.

Frustration churns in his gut because Hajime is no exception so frankly, he has no right to feel hurt about this. But what has always been vaguely mentioned only in passing with the gory details omitted during the rare times the topic arose is now blatantly brought to his attention. He’s been steeling himself for the worst of it, but nothing compares to this. Nothing compares to knowing that some guy with an athlete’s body and tousled hair asking where the _aljafors_ are has claimed Tooru, and for all Hajime knows, has done more than that.

And maybe Hajime is holding on to some thin thread of hope that these proxies could be as pointless to Tooru as they are to him, and there would come a day when they would find their way to each other. But all the too-fond gazes and too-tender words and too-warm laughter have not led to anything, and now that he’s been cruelly thrown with the reality that he could never really call Tooru his, Hajime suddenly wonders why he’s waiting.

This is Tooru’s life now, chasing volleyball with fervour underneath the Argentinian sun with people who are just as amazing and closer than Hajime will be. It’s a life that will lead him to greater things as he forges ahead without looking back and Hajime hates the way he fits in the hinterland of Oikawa Tooru’s grand life. Tooru is on the path of victors, meant for greatness. He is an unstoppable force blazing ahead, and Hajime doesn’t want to be left behind.

“Hey, I think I’m gonna head off,” Hajime says during a lull in their conversation, which has already gone stilted as much as Tooru tries not to let it be.

“So soon?” Tooru asks, the disappointment evident in his voice.

Hajime runs a tired hand through his hair, saying, “Yeah, I have classes in the morning tomorrow.”

He has classes in the morning almost every day but it’s the first time he’s using it as an excuse.

“Okay, we’ll call again?” Tooru asks hopefully.

“Yeah.”

“Goodnight Iwa-chan,” he offers a small smile.

“’Night.”

In Hajime’s mind, he’s on the edge of the shore, far enough for the waves to tease the tips of his toes, but not enough to sweep him out to sea. He thought it’s comfortable here, with the warmth of the sand and the breeze from the sea, but sometimes the sun is too hot and the moon grows too cold.

Hajime looks around and realizes he’s alone on the shore and starts to question what he’s waiting for. The tide is pulling away; it’s no longer safe.

Hajime turns and leaves the shore, red string trailing in the sand and sea, still wound around the lines of his little finger.

A Sanddorn balance—feather removed—no longer in equipoise.

* * *

.

.

.

Soon, Hajime starts the new academic year as a junior, and a while after that, a boyfriend.

He meets him at the Student Center, where he had encountered a bit of trouble sorting out some housing issues with the surly woman at the counter. Just as he’s about to give up in exasperation and possibly return the next day with Erin who he could rely on to settle this in a jiffy, a fellow student swoops in to save the day, coming up beside Hajime unexpectedly to help explain his situation in a much clearer way and extending the now cooperative woman a charming smile here and a compliment there.

His name is Jun Saunders, a Japanese-American and third-year student majoring in Sociology. He’s at the Housing Administrative Services for a similar reason as Hajime, and he rendered his assistance out of kinship and because the attractive dark-haired student with the adorable lines between his eyebrows should be relieved from having to deal with grouchy counter-lady.

It turns out that Jun just finalized a transfer to the housing complex where Hajime stays.

Hajime learns a few things about him – he’s lived in America since grade school so his Japanese has been sorely neglected; he tells Hajime he wants to brush up on his Japanese again and offers to help him with his English.

He’s an avid fan of boba and takes Hajime on a quest to taste the best bobas in Irvine. His favourite flavour is black tea macchiato and it matches with his umber-coloured eyes.

He has a few centimetres on Hajime, so Hajime has to look up a little the first time they kiss, lips tingling from the softness and heart twisting when a pair of brown eyes a shade too dark stares back at him.

Jun tells Hajime he likes him.

Hajime tells him he likes him too.

Hajime tells himself he wants to move on.

He doesn’t think about Tooru the next time they kiss.

Against the foliage of fall Hajime stumbles over fate’s strings that gather at his feet.

.

.

.

* * *

**_—san juan, fall, 2016._ **

When Tooru eventually finds out about Jun, he chalks it up as a casual affair, merely another passer-by in Hajime’s eventful California life. It’s been like this so far, why would this boy be any different?

Tooru knows that he’s a half-Japanese studying social sciences but can’t remember his fancy-sounding surname because Hajime only ever calls him by his given name. They don’t talk much about him, like they don’t talk about anything that threatens to expose poorly kept secrets, and especially after Tooru discovers that he had been the cause of a quarrel between them.

But it’s been six months and Tooru’s beginning to realize that this boy could be different.

If it provokes him into wanting to practice his jump serves until the ache in his muscles floods his senses, then he will stubbornly bear the consequences. Times like this he is grateful for the volleyball that serves as a distraction, a much welcomed form of escapism.

But sometimes volleyball is the furthest thing from that. Sometimes, it’s the beast that claws out his insecurities, that unearths his inadequacies to let them fester. In these days his serves are inconsistent, and he’s out-of-sync with his hitters on and off the court.

And there are worse days than others, when volleyball is not the only hurdle in the long road ahead of him and the day has not been kind, when he would question the reason for throwing himself into a continent halfway across the world, still trying to fit in with people and cultures that sometimes make him dearly miss home.

Against the weariness of it all, Tooru longs for solace, a dependable pillar of support, and some grasp on a reality he can’t seem to understand. All he needs is a single presence who can steady him, a reminder for the things he’s forgotten. So with his knees brought up to his chest on the bed, he picks up his phone and seeks out a familiar comfort.

The call connects on the fourth ring.

“Iwa-chan. Hi.”

His voice is so small and the last word comes out in an exhale.

“Oikawa. What’s up?” Hajime answers, sounding surprised.

“Nothing, I thought we could talk,” Tooru says, realizing how abrupt his call must have been, but hoping that Hajime could accompany him tonight. His voice alone, low and mildly husky, already brings some respite. “We haven’t talked in a while.”

He keeps his troubles to himself first, wills himself not to break down (not yet).

“Oh,” Hajime utters. “Yeah, sure. Hang on.”

Tooru hears movement on the other line, and then a door closing.

“Sorry, are you busy?” he asks, suddenly worried that he’s called at an inconvenient hour. Most of the time it doesn’t matter, but most of the time he is not beaten down by self-doubt or barely held together at the seams.

“No, I just—didn’t know you were gonna call tonight.”

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” Tooru allows this one truth to be said and from the tremor in his words, too honest and too vulnerable, Hajime knows.

He pulls out his chair, lends him time and attention in the best way he knows how, back facing the door.

“What’s wrong?” he wonders, and Tooru bares himself.

He tells him about the disastrous practice this afternoon, where all of his serves were received easily, where his sets kept missing the mark, and frustration swelters out of him until he’s told to take it easy at the side-lines. He fucking hates the side-lines.

He describes the feeling of understanding the words to a joke, but not why it’s funny, and the sting that comes with the assumption that he won’t get it, but that’s because a half-hearted explanation leaves him none the wiser.

He recounts the horror of breaking one of his succulent pots in the morning, the plant verdant and healthy under his loving care, but now made homeless by the very same hands.

He relates how someone had cut in line right before him at the supermarket and the lady at the register let it happen, rattling off in Spanish thinking he didn’t understand.

He relives the disappointment of visiting his favourite authentic Japanese restaurant for a piece of home, only to find out it’s closed today and settles for a hastily-prepared subway sandwich from the nearby store.

One misfortune after another, he searches for a silver lining the entire day, and comes up short.

“I’m tired, Iwa-chan.”

“But you’re not done.”

In the beat of silence that follows, Hajime senses Tooru’s surprise. He switches his phone to the other ear and continues, voice firm, “You had a shit day. But that’s today. There’s still tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.”

“What if it gets too much?” Tooru fears, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Then take a step back,” Hajime advises. “I know I told you to keep moving forward, but that doesn’t mean you rush ahead without stopping. And because you’re an impatient guy, you’d probably do just that. But it’s fine if you rest, because I know you’ll be on your way again.”

How is it that someone can understand him more than he understands himself, unless they are made of stardust no different from each other’s, unless they’re the person on the other end of fate’s string—no matter the distance, no matter the season.

Tooru’s chest wells with relief and he no longer feels as lost. Quietly, he confesses, “I…needed to hear that.”

A soft sigh escapes Hajime, not in exasperation, just a quiet one in understanding because that’s how it is with him—Tooru loses his way sometimes and Hajime, with a heart too tender for him, leads him to a clearing.

“You remember why you want this don’t you?” he asks, reminding Tooru of his dreams and that these obstacles are not insurmountable against his passions. “I know you’re tired, and that’s okay. But you’re far from being done.”

“You have that much faith in me?”

“That much and more.”

It is hard to doubt him when he is driven by single-minded purpose and fuelled by pure tenacity. Hajime is simply here to nudge him in the right direction, a hand between his shoulder blades and with enough conviction for the both of them. He doesn’t guarantee him victory, but he gives him the weapons to fight his battles.

_(There is nothing simple about it, not to Tooru.)_

“Thank you, Iwa-chan,” he says, hushed, afraid that the quiver in his voice becomes too apparent if he speaks too loudly.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“No, I do,” Tooru shakes his head because Hajime needs to know that there are things he can do from an ocean away that others can’t behind the same coastline. “You always know what to say. You always make me feel better.”

Hajime leans back against his chair, lets his guard down, “Kinda has been my responsibility since we were kids.”

Nostalgia settles in Tooru’s chest and he is reminded of halcyon days in the outdoors, sporting scrapes and bruises on his knees and elbows but the pain forgotten because Hajime promised to catch him a butterfly next time and led them home by the hand. When they’re older but still too young, he recalls a sense of invincibility, accompanied by the taste of iron on his lip. And even now, years later, Hajime carries that duty on steady shoulders, a faraway presence that still feels so close.

“I miss you,” Tooru whispers, fiddling the hem of his covers to ease the well of emotions within him. It does nothing to curb his honesty. “I miss home.”

The line is quiet. Hajime takes his words and all the openness they come with, and offers his own.

“I miss you too,” he says back, guilty that it will mean more than he lets on.

They find themselves in the same liminal space again, hovering over not-quites and almost-theres and Tooru, filled with love and longing to the marrow, wants to say that he more than simply misses him.

Because he may forget about his love for volleyball in faltering moments, but never his love for Hajime.

“Iwa-chan, I lo—”

 _“Hajime?”_ a foreign voice cuts into their conversation and there is jarring surprise instead of gentle tones, English instead of Japanese. Tooru can only listen from the other side, the moment so suddenly stolen from him that he’s stunned into silence. _“The bacon kinda caught fire…”_

“ _What?!_ ” Hajime exclaims, about to bolt to the kitchen for damage control. He would have told Jun that he needs a bit more time but the likelihood and consequences of having the kitchen charred is too dire to ignore.

 _“I put it out!”_ Jun assures hurriedly, and his voice turns sheepish when he adds, _“But you know I need you in the kitchen.”_

“ _Okay okay, gimme a minute_ ,” Hajime acquiesces and signals that he’s still in a call. He waits for Jun to close the door behind him before bringing the phone back to his ear and sighs. “Sorry, I think I have to go.”

Tooru’s heart sinks.

“Yeah, of course,” he mumbles, left with no other choice to say.

His foolishness hits him at full force. How could he think to say those words to Hajime when he belongs to someone else now? What could it have possibly accomplished?

He curses his lapse in judgement but above that, the realization of a lost chance that comes a little too late. Hajime has already been in a relationship for half a year, and Tooru did not wish to acknowledge it before, but now he cannot avoid the fact that what he thought was a casual affair is, in reality, far from it.

Hajime wants to love another, and understanding this brings with it a pain he has never felt before.

The disappointment in his voice doesn’t escape Hajime’s notice and it tugs on him to remain, so he allows himself to stay on the line for a while more.

“What were you saying just now?” he asks but Tooru thinks it no longer matters.

“It’s nothing.”

Somehow he sounds smaller than when Hajime first heard him this evening. Carefully, he says, “Oikawa, you know I’ll always be here to hear you out,” but it is hardly a consolation.

“I know,” the words fight their way out of his throat. Tooru forces himself to say, “You should go.”

Hajime does, eventually, after a resigned “okay” and an apologetic “I’ll talk to you again”. When the line goes dead, Tooru dwells in his own misery, too dangerous a place to be alone.

It is unfathomable how his day, having both volleyball and Hajime, could spiral into such a mess. He’s only ever given himself wholeheartedly to two loves, and wonders why none of it makes sense.

Tooru draws in a sharp breath and lets it out slowly, but it stutters in his throat instead, punctuating the darkness of the room with pangs of anguish he cannot contain. He wants Hajime to come back to him, doesn’t want him to return to someone else—and the denial of his deepest desires fills every crevice of his heart with inexplicable sorrow.

But this person, who’s known Hajime for merely half a year, is the one who gets to call him like a lover, reach over and touch him with intimacy Tooru’s only dreamed about, is the one Hajime chooses.

It used to be him Hajime chooses; when did it stop being him?

Tooru’s heart burns until he cries. They come out choked—pitiful—like the tears that stream down his cheeks and fall from the curve of his chin to stain his shirt. They devolve into sobs, wracking his body and stealing from him breath, peace and respite. The walls look on at him in sympathy, the only company to witness his grief.

He fists a hand in the fabric of his shirt, but the pain is acute, unrelenting, and takes from him more than he can give. Everything is raw—his cries, his tears, his bruising heart. Tooru wants it all to stop.

But there exists a version of Hajime he has yet to see and know—the one in rumpled sheets, cast in moonlight and bathed in sunlight, the one who comes back home to him. How can it hurt so much to lose something you never had?

Today, he is alone.

Tomorrow, he is alone.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

It is not fair that Hajime grants him the solace he craves, then leaves him wanting, leaves him with nothing but a helpless ache.

Tooru wreathes fate’s string around his being, feels it cut into his skin, and lets his blood dye it in the deepest shade of red.

* * *

**_—irvine, fall, 2016._ **

Hajime dates Jun for a whole year.

Hajime tries to move on for a whole year.

He doesn’t.

* * *

**_—irvine, winter, 2016._ **

The idea for Tooru to visit California is Hajime’s one. It’s his final year in university, neither of them are returning to Sendai for the new year, Tooru’s never been and Hajime’s not sure if he ever will if he doesn’t ask. It was a passing remark and Hajime didn’t expect to Tooru to agree, so when he actually said “why not?” after getting some pertinent questions out of the way, it caught Hajime by surprise.

But now it’s the second day he’s in Irvine, having spent the first day settling into Hajime’s one-bedroom apartment which he rents as a final-year student and the better part of today touring UCI’s campus.

Hajime brought him to his school’s building, Aldrich Park, Anteater Stadium and because Tooru seemed rather enthusiastic about it, even the library where he usually studies. It’s an impressive campus and makes Tooru miss school life, especially when Hajime regales him with tales of university shenanigans.

They messed up their mealtimes, too caught up with the tour and ended up having a late but full lunch. Hajime suggests that he can make something simple at home for dinner, so they find themselves in the kitchen when evening falls.

As Hajime checks his cabinets for what he can whip up, Tooru plants himself at the bar table and watches him patiently. As he waits, he feels grateful that it’s only the two of them this winter break. As much as he knows it’s not right for him to be pleased when Hajime told him he could stay over because Jun is back home for the holidays, he couldn’t help the sense of relief.

Even if time is medicine, he doesn’t think he can bear visiting if it were not the case; it would pick at his scab until it becomes an open wound again.

For two weeks he will savour his time with Hajime and play pretend—pretend that the fork in their paths is not permanent, that someone won’t come take his place when he leaves—until he has to return to a reality where it is anything but. It’s a sorry consolation, but these days, it’s all Tooru has as he holds on to his feelings, inexorable despite what they’ve been through.

“You okay with grilled cheese sandwich?” Hajime asks after concluding that he does not have much to make anything decent.

“How is that a meal Iwa-chan?” Tooru retorts, frankly disappointed that he won’t get to try his friend’s supposedly delightful dishes.

“Shut up,” Hajime clicks his tongue, although he does feel a little bad about it. “I haven’t gone to the supermarket yet. I’ll make you a proper meal once I do.”

Tooru sighs in gentle exasperation and rests his chin in his palm, “Then I guess I’ll have Iwa-chan’s special grilled cheese sandwich today.”

The playful remark earns him a pointed look, but Hajime doesn’t say anything else and proceeds to take out the ingredients and essentials. Tooru’s eyes are trained on his back as he busies himself with preparing the slices of bread, butter and three kinds of cheese.

He misses this view—of Hajime’s back, shoulder blades moving underneath his cotton shirt and the lines of his torso tapered to slim hips. He remembers everything he associates with it—assurance, the reliability of an ace, something to catch up to when he falls behind on the way back home after practice.

So many things have changed in ways he feels blessed for, he wonders why this part of his life is not the same.

The skillet sizzles when the buttered slice of bread meets the metal and Tooru glances away to take in a sight other than Hajime’s back. It’s an innocuous kitchen timer that catches his eye, because he recognizes it. Sitting in a corner of the kitchen counter amongst other bottles of sauces is a small device in the form of a cutely-designed Godzilla. Unknowingly, Tooru slides off his seat to pad into the kitchen, surprise taking him to the nostalgic item.

“You still have this?” he wonders out loud, taking it off the counter to turn it over in his hands. He’d found it in some vintage store on an idyllic walk around town after school and after countering Hajime’s _“what do I need a kitchen timer for?”_ with _“you can use it for your exercises or something”_ , it was promptly purchased and apparently kept till this day.

“Huh?” Hajime says as he breaks away from grilling the slices of bread to see his kitchen timer in Tooru’s hands. “Oh, yeah. I use it to make half-boiled eggs.”

“It’s so old,” Tooru comments. The grey has faded and the paint has chipped off in some places. He wasn’t even aware that kitchen timer Godzilla travelled all the way from Japan to America.

“It’s durable,” comes Hajime’s nonchalant answer, followed by a warning when he notes how Tooru is fiddling with the dulled plates on Godzilla’s back. “Hey, don’t mess around with it. Sometimes the—”

With impeccable timing, the little triangular plate dislodges and falls to the ground with a sad-sounding plonk. Tooru stares down at it, mouth agape, and then looks back up at Hajime with an interesting mix of shock and remorse.

“It’s fine. That happens,” Hajime lets it go and leaves the sandwich cooking before approaching Tooru to pick the piece off the floor, taking the kitchen timer from his pesky hands to fix it into place.

Tooru lets it sit peacefully with the other sauces, afraid that it’ll fall apart if he tinkers with it further, and Hajime returns to the skillet, the bread already turning golden brown. The setter leans his hip against the counter and asks, “Why don’t you get a new one?”

“It works fine. Just a little worse for wear,” he answers without looking.

And without thought, Tooru replies, “Aren’t you sentimental.”

“It’s a Godzilla kitchen timer. I don’t think I can easily find a similar one so it’s understandable if I don’t want to throw it out.”

“You don’t have to throw it out. Just use a different one,” Tooru states, studying Hajime’s side profile. He’s not sure what kind of response he’s trying to elicit or what kind of honesty he’s expecting.

“I like this one,” Hajime replies and finally meets Tooru’s eyes, the tiniest smile playing on the corner of his lips. “Maybe I am sentimental.”

He was not expecting this easy honesty, that much is certain. Tooru wants to know what that means, because he is sure it means _something_ , just like the years of unspoken words and echo of longing between them do. He demands to know how Hajime can be with someone else when all that exists between their intertwined souls are the same undercurrent of emotions, unsung and inhibited.

The first serving lays complete on the skillet and Hajime transfers it onto a clean plate, slicing it into two triangles.

And because Tooru does not know when to stop—especially when he wants this much—he asks mildly enough, “How’s Jun?”

It’s obvious Hajime is not expecting this subject to be brought up when the knife stills, but he recovers to say with hesitation lacing his voice and again, Tooru demands to know why, “He’s…fine.”

“Where’s his home state?”

“Michigan.”

Tooru pushes, all too familiar with how it can lead to dark waters, still he pushes.

“I’m surprised you didn’t go with him to be honest.”

Something shifts in Hajime’s eyes. He exhales heavily, puts down the knife and kills the fire. It’s not like he intentionally kept it from Tooru; they don’t talk about Jun much in the first place, but since it has boiled down to this, he figures some things have to be said, so he tells him with unease, “We uh…we broke up.”

Tooru stiffens, standing to attention. For a moment he doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe. Hajime doesn’t look at him yet, takes the plate to the bar table instead. He follows his movement, trying to process the information.

“You didn’t say anything to me,” Tooru eventually says, not the least bit hurt, only stunned. “When?”

Hajime turns to regard him with slight inconvenience, “A few months back.”

The discomfort is noticeable in the furrow of his brow and Tooru can tell it dredges up bad memories. He quells selfishness and impatience that are rising to the fore to offer sympathy, “Bad break-up?”

“No, not really…but we were quite affected by it.”

He remembers it was all quiet acceptance and muffled apologies, admitted when the truth refused to be buried under flimsy pretence and futile efforts, and when the damage had encroached onto innocent territory. He remembers it came after he could no longer look at him in the eyes and wish he was someone else. He remembers where it all started – with a boy he knows from Sendai who he left his heart with and never really got it back.

“What happened?” Tooru asks, careful.

“We just—” Hajime averts his gaze and shifts on his feet, “—realized we weren’t right for each other.”

It’s merely a morsel of the truth but even now, with Tooru within reach, Hajime withholds his confession. He could say that he thought he could move on, but realized that he could never unlove Tooru the way a person cannot unlearn another. He could profess not being able to give up his feelings for him and admit his folly for even trying. He could tell him that if he can’t be with him, then he’s prepared to take his unabated feelings to the grave, the thought of it at first a sharp pain that now subsides into a dull ache.

But he doesn’t, not sure where his place is when nothing he craves ever seems to be built from these feelings.

And Tooru catches the hesitation in his words, uncovers something deeper lingering behind them and itches to drag them to the surface. He sees uncertainty in Hajime’s eyes, an antithesis to his very being, and finds an inherent need to confront it. He thinks he deserves to know if he had been right all this time, and it breaks out of him in an impulse.

“Was it because of me?”

Shock flashes across Hajime’s eyes before he tears his gaze away again, asserting with an affliction that lies in the crease in his brow and the hard line of his jaw, “What—no.”

He looks conflicted and Tooru does not need years of understanding to see it as the lie it is. And he is growing tired of it, of questions without answers, of stifling everything that deserves the light of day.

“You know, for how hard you tried, it’s strange you couldn’t keep that relationship,” he bites out, qualm making way for bluntness.

Hajime’s gaze slices up to meet his, wariness visible against the green.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

They’re on the edge of a cliff and Tooru knows that if he persists he will fall into the deep blue. But there is nowhere to run, and he doesn’t want to.

“Seems like you just needed to distract yourself.”

“Stop,” Hajime warns, steering away from wherever this is headed.

“Were you?” Tooru demands, brows drawn together. “Tell me. Why bother getting together with someone else if you’re just going to come back to me?”

“We are not doing this now,” Hajime insists, disbelief and apprehension tinging his voice. He moves away but Tooru follows, fire in his eyes.

“Then when?” he urges, the question bordering on desperation. “When are we going to stop dancing around each other and talk about what’s going on between us?!”

So blatantly it’s uttered that Hajime is forced to challenge it.

“There’s _nothing_ between us.”

That stubbornness, all too familiar, snaps something in Tooru.

“Bullshit! I don’t believe that what we have—all the things we say and do to each other—just _us_ —mean nothing!”

“Tell me what it means then!” Hajime explodes, pinning him with a dangerous glare because how can he say that when all they’ve done is hurt. “You talk about whatever’s between us but all these years and _nothing—happened_! If it meant so much to you—”

“Fuck you Hajime,” Tooru spits, tone like venom, Hajime’s words like a stinging slap to his cheek. “It hurt me to see you with someone else, like you truly wanted them.”

He strides towards him with burning steps, and this time Hajime stands his ground.

“You _wanted_ to get over me, you _wanted_ to replace me with someone else and I know Jun came really close,” Tooru accuses and dwelling beneath all that fury is a hurt he’s nursed for too long and a blame neither of them are willing to shoulder. “But I—I never once tried to do that, because I know no one could ever—”

“No, fuck you Oikawa. Don’t put this on me. What did you expect me to do? Wait around until you decided it was convenient to be together? Because I fucking did! I waited and I held myself back and fuck—” Hajime’s voice breaks, his breath coming out in a fractured exhale, because this confession—raw and long overdue—exposes his bleeding heart and in spite of it, a love still perennial.

He meets Tooru’s tormented gaze, his own eyes stricken with sorrow, no more fight left in him, and Hajime whispers tiredly, “Oikawa…you have no idea what it’s like loving you.”

Tooru’s voice caves when he answers, “Is it as bad as loving _you_?”

All this time between them there exists a love that is always shown but never said and now that it has, it happens like this: neither of them knows who moves first, and maybe they move at the same time—finally in sync—surging forward for lips to meet and hands to reach.

It is messy, hurried—like trying to make up for lost time in a matter of minutes. Tooru’s fingers dig into the base of Hajime’s skull as he kisses him hard, and Hajime leaves no space between them as he kisses him back with equal fervour. There is no room for elegance as they break apart only to come together again, years of pining unravelling with each hungry kiss and every searing touch.

Through the adrenaline, Hajime is reeling from the reality of this moment but needs to make sure that this isn’t a mistake, that if they continue, they won’t regret it. When it becomes hard to breathe, he pulls away only for Tooru to follow the path of his lips and has to hold him by the curve of his jaw to force him to look him in the eye.

“Tell me you want this,” he asks headily.

“Not just this. You,” Tooru answers, mouth dry. “I want you.”

And Hajime wonders how it could take them so long to get here.

He leads him to the room, some part of them touching the whole way there. When Tooru’s back meets the sheets and Hajime is an unquestionable presence above him—the sea of emotions finally allowed to crest—Tooru rises to meet his lips, sighing into his mouth when Hajime slips his tongue in.

They fall into this dance as easily as they fall in love, unashamed and guileless, except this time there’s nothing stopping them from baring it all.

Hajime, straddled over Tooru’s hips and hands balled into fists at the sides of his head, breaks the kiss to draw in a shaky breath. Tooru himself is panting, the rise and fall of his chest evident of desire mixed with nervousness.

But he has endured enough hesitation to believe that release is a long time coming, and now that he knows this is no grey area, he wants Hajime to be unbridled.

Tooru presses a palm against his chest, puts distance between them so their gazes are locked and grasps the front of Hajime’s shirt, tugging him once to say with a daring glint in hazel eyes.

“Don’t hold back on me now.”

Hajime’s veins flood with liquid heat. Has he been waiting for the waves to call him? The pull of the waves has always been there. He just needs to dive.

So he surrenders himself the way he could not before, to lust and love and every shade of longing. He seals their mouths with kisses so sure and desperate and relishes the flavour that drowns him, chases for the taste of Tooru’s sweat on his lips, of his blood on his tongue.

And Tooru crashes on him like a tsunami, merciless in his touches and unceasing. Shirts are pulled off eagerly, thrown to the side, and Tooru claims what has always been his – the map of Hajime’s body, charted by the lines of his collarbone, the firmness of his chest, the alluring dip from his hips.

Even in their delirium they memorize what it feels like to have your dreams come to life, from hazy gazes and sinful lips to pleasured sighs and brazen strokes. Tooru welcomes wetness and warmness that raise goosebumps along his arms, buries his nails into the sheets before they dig crescents in Hajime’s skin. And Hajime, untamed in love and hunger, wrecks him and soothes him.

They fit against each other like curves of the same frequency, tuned to the same desires and echoes for skin, lips and heat.

Hajime laces their fingers and settles the shiver that seeps from Tooru’s hands. And Tooru bares himself more intimately than he ever has before, not just the way he takes Hajime, but the way he hands him his heart, with a love that has lingered for years and a love that burns for more. They take everything the other has to offer, the pain that comes out in gasps, and pleasure that overwhelms their senses.

Need and want become one and the same, their bodies arching into each other, skin-to-skin, breath-to-breath, the ends of fate’s strings finally coming together.

* * *

The after is quiet, heavy with suspense but not dreaded, just with an understanding that they have yet to pull out all the secrets under the rug and that the future waits to be shaped by careful hands.

Half-dressed, Hajime reaches for his shirt at the foot of the bed and takes his time in turning out the sleeves. Tooru, with his own shirt still bunched underneath his fingers, watches silently and expectantly, some of the words already on the tip of his tongue. It is only when Hajime raises his shirt to his head that Tooru stretches out a hand to hold him in place, stopping him mid-movement.

Without saying anything, Tooru shuffles towards Hajime on the bed, eyes flickering up to meet his searching ones when they’re close enough. There is a tinge of nervousness in brown eyes before Tooru drops his gaze to Hajime’s shoulder, the one with the scar, and presses his lips to the welted skin.

Hajime lets him, and a shudder runs down his spine. Tooru’s mouth feels like fire, leaving a residual warmth on the cicatrix.

When he looks back up, Hajime’s breath catches in his throat and Tooru murmurs almost shyly, “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

_(Hajime wonders if he’s talking about sleeping together or the kiss specifically, but does it really matter?)_

He doesn’t offer anything but a wordless surprise, so Tooru draws back a little, sheepish.

“Say something.”

What is he to say? Where would he even start? Years of keeping his feelings in the mason jar of his heart has resulted in a tangled mess that he’s still trying to resolve. And now that they’re facing each other with traces of passion marking their skin, having understood the other’s innermost needs, Hajime’s mind scrambles for something to say.

But the argument that precipitated this moment stays fresh in his mind and the unfettered words they threw at each other are scorched upon his bones.

Guilty, but forcing himself not to look away, Hajime admits slowly, “You were right. I tried to get over you. Tried to let go of my feelings which I’ve had since—fuck, I don’t even know when.”

It seems like a thing of the distant past, fallible but relentless, and Hajime supposes he could start from the beginning or at least a point in the beginning he remembers with startling clarity.

“You know, I wanted to confess to you in high school but that was the day you got a girlfriend…and after that, I guess I wasn’t sure anymore,” he trails off. Astonishment settles in Tooru’s widened eyes but he lets Hajime carry on, a tentative edge in his voice, “…if you wanted me the same way I wanted you, that maybe I was just a habit you couldn’t kick, and that I didn’t have a place to be anything more than that. And it got to a point where it hurt too much not to be with you. So I tried to move on.”

The revelation staggers him, especially when that incident had been a foolish attempt to run away from his very own feelings that seemed so enormous it scared him, but Tooru focuses on the way things are unfolding now.

_(He has a hunch that they’ll have time to catch up on the more regrettable moments of their past.)_

“How’d that work out?” Tooru asks, the fact that they’ve taken the leap to be like this allowing him a deliberate remark, not accusatory, simply enlightened.

“Badly,” Hajime returns with a rueful smile and holds Tooru’s gaze with deep sadness that tightens the setter’s chest. “It hurt me too, to see you with someone else. Somewhere so far away, somewhere I couldn’t be.”

The realization that they’ve been unintentionally hurting each other all this time dawns on Tooru quietly, bringing with it regret, disbelief and maybe hope. He wonders how differently their story would have unfurled if they had not waited as long as they did.

“I didn’t let you finish before, but you wanted to say that if it meant so much to me, I would’ve done something right?” Tooru says, fingers lightly scraping the bedsheets. “I wanted to, last year when I had one of my worst days and called you. But I didn’t get to say the words.”

It is laughable how they are almost telepathic in so many ways but out of sync on the one that matters.

“How did we keep missing each other?” Hajime wonders aloud, head tilted and eyes boring into Tooru’s, not really looking for an answer to past mistakes, but accepting that they had taken some wrong turns during the journey and came out with cuts and bruises.

Tooru believes that it’s time to heal.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he insists, leaning into Hajime in a plea. He wants everything with him and he won’t settle for anything less. His voice trembles when he asks, “Can we have this?”

Under different conditions, Hajime would say yes in a heartbeat. Tooru staring at him with hazel resolve and kiss-swollen lips makes it so easy for his brimming heart to succumb to his most ardent wishes. But he needs Tooru to know the reality of their separate circumstances, needs him to understand that distance and time will continue to be their enemies but still want this.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Hajime points out soberly. “You’re going back to Argentina and after I graduate and finish my Masters here, I think I want to go back to Japan. We’re going to lead different lives Oikawa. We both want different things.”

“But we want each other too. Am I wrong?”

Hajime really should no longer be surprised at the truths Tooru can speak. With a calmness that blooms in his chest, he lifts his hand to Tooru’s face and brushes his fringe away, carding gentle fingers through his hair before cradling the side of his face with the warmest touch.

“No.”

He’s wanted this for so long.

A hand comes up to cover Hajime’s, and it’s Tooru pressing his palm against the back of his to keep him there. Hope burns in the golds of his eyes, blazes a trail along fate’s string. They’re almost there. He won’t let go until they are.

“Then let’s try. Let’s try anyway. I’ve wanted this for so long, and we’ve let too many chances pass us by,” he urges, eyes stinging with unshed tears. They had their whole lifetimes to reach here, they were just full of missed chances. Tooru doesn’t want there to be any more. “I don’t want to give up without trying. We’ve lost so much time…”

He realizes he’s crying when Hajime brings up his other hand to catch a tear on a curved finger. Silently, Hajime fits his palm along his jaw and runs the pad of his thumb across his tear-stained cheek. The gesture is infinitely tender and Tooru learns that perhaps there is no end to how much he longs for Iwaizumi Hajime.

“I love you Iwa-chan. I’ll always love you.”

At long last, his heart can sing.

Hajime’s sing the same tune.

“I’ve always loved you, and I always will,” he says into the barest of space between them, and closes his mouth over Tooru’s.

* * *

The next two weeks in California feel like a dream.

Hajime takes Tooru to all the places in Irvine. They visit Irvine Spectrum Center, whiling the day away with window-shopping and indulging in cheesy first-date clichés, like stealing kisses at the apex of the Ferris wheel and laughing as they try not to fall in the ice skating rink. He lets Tooru enjoy the delight that is In-N-Out Burger and teaches him about the secret menu to his child-like amazement. They head out to Newport Beach but it’s a little cold for surfing so Hajime leaves a surfing lesson (or a chance to show off) for a future them.

They hold hands in the bustling neighbourhoods, play footsie in random burger joints, and kiss underneath the Californian palm trees. There is no one to tell them they cannot have this, and Hajime refuses to hide anymore—not from themselves and not from the world—so he puts his thoughts into words and his feelings into actions and the image of Tooru, dripped in winter sunshine, he tucks into a quiet corner of his heart and lets it grow to make space for more.

Sometimes, Hajime borrows Erin’s car and they drive out to Los Angeles. Tooru looks forward to these drives; they’re not long, but he enjoys the tranquillity of the ride and takes pleasure in sneaking glances at Hajime’s side profile until he tells him not to be distracting and takes his hand in his to drive one-handed for a while.

Tooru chances upon George Takei’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and insists on taking a picture with it. But it’s Hajime who grins like a fanboy when he poses for a picture with someone in a Godzilla suit along the star-studded boulevard. They send a picture of themselves against the background of the Hollywood sign to Hanamaki and Matsukawa with the innocuous caption, _‘we got together’_ and end up in a video call that depletes a good part of Hajime’s mobile data.

Christmas is spent in Disneyland in Anaheim and it brings back memories of the time Tooru’s parents took them to the one in Tokyo, still raring to try all the rides, still inseparable as they queued, still challenging each other to making the weirdest face on Space Mountain. Although now they share kisses on top of sharing food and tease the other with affectionate gestures instead of silly remarks.

Sometimes, they idle in Hajime’s apartment the entire day, sleeping in, watching films on Netflix, always pressed close as if they want to memorize the way they’re pieced together. They make a trip to the supermarket and to Mitsuwa Marketplace, and Hajime fulfils his promise to cook for the both of them. Tooru is greeted by the smell of pancakes one morning and Hajime makes a mean _katsudon_ for dinner and s’mores for one of their movie marathons.

And they take the time to learn each other in all the ways they’ve dreamed of. They commit every intimate detail to memory – the muscled lines of their bodies, where they’re most sensitive, hungry growls and whimpers alike, touches that reduce them into an uncontrollable mess, the red-peppered canvas in the afterglow.

Tooru tells Hajime to call him by his name and Hajime utters it against his lips, in the heat of the moment and in a sleep-laden voice when morning breaks. They push boundaries and make discoveries with fearlessness and a boundless appetite.

Hajime bends him over the couch and goes down on him under the covers and pins him against the bathroom wall. And Tooru, greedy and pliant, drops to his knees to close eager lips over Hajime, lets Hajime take him with his knees pressed into his chest and leaves no part of them untouched. Tooru sleeps in Hajime’s clothes and in nothing at all, and Hajime fits the slope of his nose against the curve of Tooru’s forehead when he gathers him in his arms.

The New Year marches up to them unknowingly but before it’s time to part ways again, they welcome a new year at a beach party in Huntington Beach, dancing to the beat of the music and tempting the waves without a care in the world. When the countdown heralds a new day, Hajime slides an arm around Tooru’s waist and pulls him in for a searing kiss, as liberated as the fireworks that paint the night sky in a kaleidoscope of colours.

Their dreamlike spell reaches an end on the third day of the New Year and Tooru finds himself wishing that the road to LAX would stretch on forever. He brings Hajime’s UCI sweater back with him, as well as a few marks on his skin that will remind him that Hajime is a passionate lover. He insists on holding hands the whole way there, threading fingers through fingers, running them over knuckles, and offers Hajime a mirthful smile when he holds on just as tightly, just as reluctant to let go.

As Tooru bids farewell to the same palm trees that welcomed him here, heart full of hope, he thinks things are going to be okay.

* * *

Things are decidedly not okay.

If they thought pining for each other in the limbo of their relationship was bad, yearning for each other in a long-distance relationship is a whole other ball game.

Wanting to see each other’s faces and hear each other’s voices but having to wait is a punishing test of limits. It becomes an apparent display of enthusiasm every time they have a video call arranged that their friends and teammates eventually find out that they’ve gotten together with the famous ‘Shittykawa’ and ‘Iwa-chan’ at last.

And even then, it’s through some digital means that leaves their fingers empty and they positively believe that such denial should be its own method of torture.

There is nothing _cute_ about looking forward to simple texts and calls from your long-distance boyfriend when it results in an absence so piercing it renders them a helpless wreck. When limits are reached and dams are broken, Tooru misses Hajime until he cries, trying to tell him how much he wishes he were here through blurry eyes and soft hiccups.

Hajime hates how powerless he feels when he can’t reach out and wipe his tears dry or pull him into a hug and kiss his heartache away. All he can offer are words of comfort and a promise that they’ll be by each other’s sides again, so paltry compared to the weight of his truest desires.

To make matters worse, the craving for physical touch is a wicked type of ordeal. They have a healthy appetite after all and while mentally, they would not think to give themselves to anyone else, physically, their bodies demand release. It doesn’t take them long to venture into the practice of sending racy pictures to each other and keeping things interesting through the wonders of video sex. It’s awkward at first, but with all things, they find their footing together and add ‘phone-slash-video sex’ to their list of skills.

The worst of it is when they quarrel, and being in different countries means replies don’t come as quickly as they wish and emotions aren’t adequately conveyed over text. Arguments over the Caribbean Sea never results in any victors, only frustrations and a belated realization that staying bitter is meaningless. So they forgive, because staying angry when you’re already missing each other is a deadly combination.

Maintaining a relationship over distance and time is no simple task but trust and loyalty come easy to them, and they make an effort to communicate with patience and understanding.

It’s tough, but with each new day they choose each other, and it’s the easiest choice of all.

* * *

**_—sendai, summer, 2017_ **

The Tanabata Festival celebrates the reunion of the deities Orihime and Hikoboshi and aptly, marks the reunion of two young lovers.

With a Bachelor’s degree under his belt, Hajime proudly returns home to spend summer with his family before he has to return to Irvine for his Master’s programme. Tooru also visits after much nagging from his mother and times his trip with Hajime’s. It’s the first time they’re meeting after that fateful night in Irvine and they both find the conservativeness in Japan smothering when they can’t kiss at the airport (although they do engulf each other in a crushing hug) or hold hands in public or have to keep to themselves in front of their parents.

Naturally, they meet up with Hanamaki and Matsukawa who welcome them with giant grins and more teasing comments about finally resolving their long-standing feelings after putting everyone through the homoerotic tension between them. Having attended the famous Sendai Tanabata Festival as a group of four, Hajime and Tooru now find themselves alone after Hanamaki drew a ‘big curse’ for his _omikuji_ and dragged Matsukawa (who drew a ‘half blessing’) to hastily make their prayers at the shrine.

As for the two of them (who both drew a ‘blessing’), they decide to write their _tanzaku_ wishes at the Festival Square while waiting for their friends to enjoy the rest of the festivities together.

“What did you write on your _tanzaku_ Iwa-chan?” Tooru asks, curiously peering at the green strip of paper that Hajime hangs onto the bamboo tree, already decorated with hundreds of other strips that bear Sendai’s hopes.

“That I hope the seas and seasons won’t be so harsh,” Hajime answers without missing a beat, facing him with a cool expression.

“T-That’s rather poetic of you Iwa-chan. I feel like I’ve been dealt with a fatal blow,” Tooru clutches his chest as if he’s been struck with an imaginary arrow. He knows Hajime’s wish has a lot to do with their arrangement and the recognition that it has been tough and will continue to be is a daunting reminder.

Hajime rolls his eyes at Tooru’s usual dramatics and asks back, “What did you write?”

“Triple blessings in love, health and career!” he chirps, putting up three fingers and wiggling them.

“That’s too many things,” Hajime shoots. “The gods are already frowning upon your greed.”

“You don’t speak for the gods,” Tooru retorts. “These are my most heartfelt wishes and I’m sure the gods will reward my determination.”

“Me too then. I’ll need all the help I can get,” he comments, half-jokingly because he’s come to terms with the fact that dating Oikawa Tooru will take more than just guts and that in itself, is already a veritable step in the right direction.

But the humour is lost on Tooru, who fixates on the gloomier aspects of it. They’ve survived the first seven months of being together across separate countries, but Tooru does not brush off the troubles Hajime has to endure for dealing with a handful thousands of kilometres away nor overlook his inability to provide Hajime what needs and wants. There are limits to what they can do for each other and the fear that one day Hajime reaches his is a persistent one.

“It’s difficult right? Being together,” Tooru supposes with a wry smile, a solemn tone creeping into his voice.

“Hm? Yeah. I’ve said it before and I didn’t expect anything different,” is Hajime’s contrastingly level-headed answer.

“Does it tire you out?”

“Sometimes. But aren’t your most heartfelt wishes meant to be fought for?” Hajime echoes Tooru’s earlier words. He notices the subtle dip in his mood and wants to show him that there’s nothing to be worried about. Surely they did not get this far, just to get this far. And because he has that much faith in them, he dares to ask, “Why? Having second thoughts?”

Tooru shakes his head.

“Never,” he tells him firmly, but he doesn’t foresee an end to their separation in the near future when Argentina is where he’ll be. What if their story mirrors that of the star-crossed lovers this festival is based on, and they’re only able to meet once every year? For Hajime he would brave it until there comes a time when his sheets would smell like him and he starts preparing meals meant for two. But perhaps Hajime deserves a better story than that and Tooru can never bring himself to put him through needless suffering.

So Tooru thinks he’s being self-sacrificing when he says with a tremor in his voice, “But if you find someone else, I’ll let you go. If—If you think that another person can love you without putting you through the pain…it’ll take everything, but I’ll let you go.”

Of all the reactions Tooru expects, glaring annoyance is the last of them, but that’s exactly what Hajime returns his supposed act of nobility with.

“You know it really pisses me off when you say shit like that,” he bristles.

Taken aback by the sharp remark, Tooru can only utter a startled, “Iwa-chan?”

He knows Tooru comes up with the most idiotic suggestions sometimes, but this really takes the cake. Hajime can’t help the frustration that his words have riled.

“You think you’re doing me a favour? By giving me a way out? I didn’t get together with you expecting myself to just break it off when someone else comes along,” he admonishes, leaving no room for argument. “What kind of person do you think I am? Some asshole who says he’s done when it’s convenient?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You said we’d try,” Hajime reminds and pins Tooru with a fierce gaze. “Well I’m trying. Are you?”

“Of course I am,” Tooru insists, the tiniest tremble existing in those words. It would be humiliating to cry in the Festival Square right now, but the corners of his eyes are prickling with tears because Hajime’s stern lesson manages to make him feel incredibly silly for neglecting to consider the implications of such a consequential offer and that perhaps Hajime himself does not want to let go, that whatever story his life narrates, he wants to make sure that Tooru is nestled between each line.

“Then don’t—fuck, don’t say things like that,” he exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair in vexation. The brusqueness in his voice melts away as he regards Tooru with softer eyes, “You should know, the fact that I’m here with your dumbass after all this time, means that I willingly put myself through the hell you give me, and that I’m not going anywhere.”

He might not have made all the right choices to arrive here but from here on out, he knows the path he should take and he will take it with every solid step.

He wavered once, he’ll never waver again.

Before him though, Tooru starts to sniffle, lips pressed together in a quivering line before he releases a shaky breath to stammer in between his crying, “Why do you…have to—…insult me—when you’re saying something nice?”

Sighing in part resignation and part guilt (because he kind of is to blame for making Tooru cry in a corner of the Festival Square and in front of the bamboo tree), Hajime holds out his hand in an offering.

“Come here.”

“No!” Tooru protests wilfully, dashing his tears away with the heel of his palm in heated embarrassment.

At this point, Hajime pays no heed to the fact that they’re in public and catches Tooru’s wrist.

“Tooru. Hey, look at me,” he murmurs gently, pulling his hands away from his blushing face and Tooru doesn’t resist. Hajime did not endure the helplessness that geography cursed him with to hold back now. So he doesn’t care if people are throwing them strange looks as he wraps his fingers around his.

“Sorry I was rough,” he apologizes, tilting his head to meet Tooru’s downcast eyes and adds with a fondness he accords to Tooru only, “But I need you to know that you’re not some kind of stand-in until someone else happens to come along. And you and I both know that I’m not going to find anyone else. I have, for quite my whole life, been in love with you. So are you still with me?”

It isn’t supposed to restart his tear ducts, but it does.

Tooru sniffs loudly, willing his tears to stop since his hands are occupied, but Hajime takes it upon himself to catch his tears in their tracks, Tooru’s cheeks warm and wet against his fingers.

“Of course I’m still with you,” he hiccups, and his chest squeezes to be on the receiving end of Hajime’s sincere words and reassuring touch. Tooru huffs, still petulant, “Are you going to be gruff or gentle? Pick one…dammit.”

Another fat tear drops.

“Please don’t cry,” Hajime implores in lieu of an answer.

Tooru’s sniffles subside.

“I hate you,” he mumbles, the furthest sentiment from the depths of his heart.

“I love you too.”

Later in the night, when they’re admiring the illuminations that light up Johzenji-dori Avenue, Hanamaki and Matsukawa a few steps ahead of them, Tooru turns to Hajime with his profile cast in vivid hues to ask, “Iwa-chan, since we’re both back home, what do you think about telling our parents?”

_(They do, and because the red string that binds them has always been almost tangible, it comes as a quiet understanding.)_

* * *

**_—san juan, winter, 2018._ **

“ _…que los cumplas feliiiz!!!_ ” the birthday song drags to an end as CA San Juan’s players surround Tooru in a loose circle, laughing merrily at their setter’s wide grin.

Tooru blows out the single candle standing in the middle of the cake that their libero holds out to him, basking in the attention his lively teammates shower him with on his special day.

“ _Feliz cumple Toto!_ ” a few of them wish him and he responds with a happy, “ _Gracias!_ ”

They never fail to celebrate his birthday every year so Tooru wasn’t really surprised when they brought out the cake and broke into a song after practice. Hajime had wished him happy birthday the second midnight struck in San Juan and then ordered him to bed after talking for a while. He hasn’t heard from him since, but Hajime had told him that he’d be tied up with his apprenticeship today so Tooru accepts the situation for what it is with slight disappointment. Receiving this simple celebration from his teammates does lift his mood a little.

Last year, they made a mess out of their captain’s house attempting to bake milk bread for him and although the final product was nowhere near the marvel that is Sendai’s milk bread, Tooru polished off the entire loaf with utmost gratitude. He wonders if they’ll be taking him out for a birthday dinner or something later. _Asado_ sounds pretty appetizing right now.

But before any suggestions can be made, their outside hitter, Damián, asks Tooru with a playful smirk, “ _¿Estás listo para tu regalo?_ ”

“ _Eh?_ ” he manages, puzzled over the mention of a present. So they prepared a gift for him this year too? There’s hardly a second to register the oddly similar eager smiles on his teammates’ faces when a markedly familiar voice joins the conversation.

“It’s a really expensive present,” Tooru hears from behind him and does a 180° spin so fast he’s positive something cracks.

There, right in front of his very eyes, stands Iwaizumi Hajime in the flesh, dressed in sweater and jeans and carrying a duffel backpack with the strap fastened in the front for maximum security.

“IWA-CHAN!!!” Tooru yells, disbelief ripping the name from his lips, and launches himself at Hajime in a burst of uncontainable excitement at the sight of his boyfriend who’s supposed to be a seventeen-hour flight away. Fortunately, Hajime fully expected this explosive reaction and opens his arms in time to receive an armful of Tooru, steadying themselves when the force of his embrace nearly knocks them over.

“I can’t believe this! How are you here?! Is this real?!” Tooru rattles off, abruptly wrenching Hajime away by his shoulders—again with too much force—to take a good look at him and determine by every means necessary—sight, sound, touch—that Hajime is truly before him.

“It’s real,” he simply says, the only one out of them to notice that Tooru’s teammates are regarding them with a range of colourful expressions even though his heart is also thudding against his ribcage to feel Tooru under his skin again.

The captain, Andrés, is the one who interrupts their little private moment with an amused laugh and does Hajime a favour by speaking in English, “ _We finally get to meet the one and only Iwa-chan._ ”

“ _Hi everyone_ ,” Hajime greets, stepping forward to properly introduce himself to the people he’s only met when they appeared during his and Tooru’s video calls before. “ _My name is Iwaizumi Hajime. Nice to meet you._ ”

“ _¡Ay! I thought your name is Iwa-chan Daisuki!_ ” Diego, their opposite, confesses in surprise and earns himself an unimpressed stare from his teammate.

“ _Really, Diego?_ ”

“ _Toto says that all the time!_ ” the young player argues and while Hajime is well aware of this, he bites back a smile at the discovery that Tooru says it unabashedly and often enough that the phrase has become his mistaken name.

Feeling magnanimous, Hajime allows, “ _You can call me Iwa-chan._ ”

But Tooru cuts in to warn possessively to the amusement of his teammates, “ _No! Do not call him Iwa-chan!_ ” and turns towards his partner to press on, still reeling from shock, “ _But what is this?! What’s going on?! Why are you here?!_ ”

“ _He’s your birthday surprise Toto!_ ” Damián laughs at the bewildered setter.

“I had a week’s break from my apprenticeship and was talking to Eliás on Instagram to help me pull this together,” Hajime explains in Japanese before offering the said middle blocker an appreciative smile. “ _Thanks for getting your cousin to drive me from the airport._ ”

“ _De nada_ ,” Eliás returns with a grin. He was next to Hajime when they walked into the court, having escorted him to where the team practises after his cousin dropped him off in front of the stadium, but Tooru had been too occupied with Hajime’s unexpected appearance to notice. Now, his curiosity over how they concocted this plan over Instagram is piqued, and Tooru makes a mental note to ask Hajime for all the details later.

“I didn’t tell you obviously, because it’s supposed to be a surprise,” Hajime continues, heart warm at pulling off this gesture and having the chance to be within each other’s reach again. He smiles, a rare one that softens the usually hard edges of his eyes, and wishes him once more—this time able to savour the moment in its rawest form—“Happy birthday Tooru.”

It is not merely the fondness he says it with that strikes a bolt of affection right through his chest but the entirety of this moment, from what has led to this to what will come after.

Tooru lets the surge of emotions propel him forward and engulfs Hajime in another hug, exclaiming, “Iwa-chan!! _Daisuki_!!”

Diego immediately shoots everyone a pointed look, throwing out a hand at the embracing couple to prove his earlier point.

* * *

They barely step foot into the apartment before Tooru slams the door shut by shoving Hajime’s back against it. Hajime is here for a week and they will have time to relearn the maps of their bodies with attentiveness and patience but tonight, Tooru has no room for gentleness. He has tolerated months of absence and proxies for release to be gentle now.

Today, he has no time for poetry, no pretty words murmured against his skin, only bruising grips and angry blemishes.

He wants passion unrestrained and caution thrown to the wind. He wants Hajime to show him with his hands and his teeth and his mouth that he misses this as much as he does. He wants Hajime to be rough, to break him only because he knows he will fix him after.

So Hajime matches his fire with his own. He lifts Tooru onto his hips and carries him to the room, pushes him against the sheets and makes sure that clothes are no longer a hindrance. His kisses are messy and unthinking, mindless self-indulgence that leaves reckless marks on Tooru’s skin. Hajime’s insistent touches imprint bruises that have yet to blossom and gift him with a future soreness.

And when Hajime grips him by the hips and digs his thumbs into the dimples on his back, sinking into him with a familiar burn, Tooru thinks for a short-lived moment that pleasure is synonymous with whatever Hajime does to him before his mind goes blank as he falls over the edge.

* * *

From the bed, Tooru stares at his reflection in the full-length mirror that Hajime faces in his direction when he opens his wardrobe to borrow one of his shirt.

“Iwa-chan, you really are an animal,” he points out in certain understanding, the covers sliding further down his waist as he shifts. “Look at these. You know my uniform won’t cover all of these right?”

There are love bites adorning the base of his neck and a particularly dark one embellishing the juncture of his neck and shoulder where Hajime had found an easy spot to nip and suck. Tooru tilts his head and grazes careful fingers over the marks, a tad more concerned about these than the ones around his hips or the inside of his thighs.

“Sorry, I’ll leave them where people can’t see next time,” Hajime answers, not sounding apologetic at all. Tooru ducks his head and blushes at his apparent disregard for leaving evidence of their ardent escapades. It goes unnoticed because Hajime suddenly recalls something, “Oh, before I forget.”

He makes his way to his backpack at the end of the bed and pulls out a glossy plastic bag that seems to hold a mysterious box, tossing it to Tooru with a brief, “Here. Your present.”

Tooru catches it effortlessly and decides to tease Hajime, the corner of his mouth curling into a playful grin, “You dropped me a surprise visit _and_ got me something? You must really love me.”

“Just open it,” Hajime rolls his eyes and re-joins him on the bed, pulling his legs in to sit cross-legged across a still-naked Tooru.

Excitedly, he takes out the black plastic box from the bag and raises his brows in surprise when the picture of a white knee brace on the packaging greets him.

“You said your current one’s losing its elasticity. So I got you a new one,” Hajime elaborates. Tooru had complained about his supporter not too long ago—trusty for the years he’s used it but due for a replacement—and it seemed like the perfect idea to get him one when Hajime was planning the surprise visit. He considered a few brands, sought reviews from his friends and even solicited his mentor’s feedback before deciding on this one. “It’s a good brand,” Hajime adds. “Utsui-san agrees.”

Somehow, Tooru can tell that Hajime invested quite some effort into getting this and warmth blooms across his chest. He can’t wait to use it, just like he can’t wait to spend an entire week with him.

“Thank you. This is the best birthday ever,” he says, inexplicably overjoyed to be blessed with this unexpected turn of events. To have Hajime by his side—touchable, kissable—is a special kind of bliss. The present is simply a bonus.

With the box still clutched in his hands, Tooru leans in to take Hajime’s lips, kissing him slowly before pressing in with firmness. He sucks on his bottom lip with the slightest pressure, so that it makes a scarcely audible smack before he pulls away, and smirks when he sees Hajime’s eyes flutter open.

The smirks turns impish as he puts away his gift to suggest, “Iwa-chan, you ready for another round?”

“I just got dressed,” Hajime states factually, but lamely.

“No one told you to,” Tooru retorts and because he really wants his way (it’s still his birthday after all), he drops his lips into a pout and scoots closer to Hajime to rest tantalizing hands on his chest that slide around his shoulders to lace behind his neck. “I want you inside again. Please?”

It seems as if Hajime’s resolve is non-existent in the face of Tooru’s beguiling insistence.

He releases a growl at the back of his throat and gives in, tugging off his shirt and pushing Tooru into the bed, drowning his laughter with a flurry of kisses.

* * *

**_—tokyo, summer, 2019._ **

Tokyo is bustling, hectic, and presents Hajime with a new kind of challenge.

He handles it with drive and tenacity and undergoes a gruelling process to be part of the national volleyball team’s department of trainers. Calling it arduous is putting it lightly, but with his Master’s degree, apprenticeship under Utsui Takashi and several references, Hajime eventually finds himself squeezing with other salarymen during the morning rush hour to make it to work as one of the team’s rookie trainers.

Not today though—today, he’s scheduled to meet the national team players for the first time (with the exception of his rivals from his high school volleyball days he supposes) and Tooru had enthusiastically demanded for a tour of the arena so Hajime beat the rush hour to get to work early.

iPad in hand and AirPods plugged in, he’s already brought Tooru to the training room and main arena, with the sub arena being the last stop in their mini virtual tour.

“And these are the courts where the national team usually practises,” Hajime says, panning the camera to give Tooru a sweeping view of the arena. “I’ll be meeting them here later.”

“Help me say ‘hi’ to Shouyou when you see him!” Tooru chirps through the earpiece as he takes in the sight of the courts, one he’s more than familiar with.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hajime accedes, ending the tour here. “I’m not gonna walk around the entire place, you know it well enough.”

Instead, he heads towards the spectator stands to continue the rest of their video call before it’s time to meet the senior athletic trainer. Hajime hears Tooru snicker as he settles into a corner seat in the front row.

“Feeling nostalgic?”

Hajime considers the question thoughtfully. Nostalgia is only scratching the surface of what he feels towards his new life in Tokyo.

“It just feels good to be here again,” he replies, gaze flickering towards the courts, empty and spacious at this time of the morning. It’s been his battleground throughout his adolescence and he’s spent the last few years in pursuit of his ambitions which has brought him back to this scene, and while his place is no longer within the lines of the court, Hajime believes that there is much for him to do outside these lines.

That much has not changed, and to finally stand here again knowing he made it and that this is yet another beginning, fills him with both pride and zeal.

“I’m so happy for you Iwa-chan. You really worked hard,” Tooru says sincerely. He of all people, understands Hajime’s efforts and it reminds him of the times they share the same sense of satisfaction that comes with every achievement, be it their own or the other’s.

It brings to mind his most recent one—an offer he shouldn’t refuse but cannot yet accept. Pushing the memory aside the way he does whenever it persistently surfaces, Tooru tells himself that this is about Hajime now.

Puffing out his chest, he carries on, “It’s like I’ve watched you grow from a scrawny little kid to the capable person you are today.”

Hajime wrinkles his nose, “My parents don’t even say that.”

“Be grateful. These are the words of a proud boyfriend,” Tooru huffs, and because Hajime knows his heart is true, he offers him a tiny smile.

“Thank you,” he says and switches the topic. “By the way, I saw your interview. The one with TyC Sports.”

“Oh, you did? What did you think?” Tooru asks, remembering that the programme covered the Argentina Volleyball League and also included a segment on the more recent Men’s Intercontinental qualification where Argentina emerged as the champions of their pool and secured a ticket to the Olympics.

“I think you’re annoying when you say _‘pues…’_ too many times,” Hajime jokes and Tooru sputters, clearly not expecting the jibe.

“I was nervous!”

“You got quite some airtime compared to the others,” Hajime comments, ignoring Tooru’s embarrassment at having used too many fillers in his interview. To be fair, he was unsurprisingly photogenic and Hajime’s sure he captured the viewers’ attention with his mostly-serious-but-still-charming persona he reserves for TV. “Argentina got their sights set on you huh.”

The notion, closer to reality than Hajime realizes, catches Tooru off guard.

“I guess…”

“And they replayed your one-handed toss from the LVA a few times. That was cool, but I thought they should have featured that time you covered for the libero,” Hajime continues, actually rather impressed with Tooru’s plays to withhold his praise although he slides in a jab, “Come to think of it, you had quite a few impressive moments from the league. No wonder they focused on you so much. I wonder what the size of your ego is right now.”

“Rude…” Tooru trails off automatically, eyes shifting away. This topic hauls another pertinent issue to the surface that he finds increasingly difficult to ignore.

The lacklustre reaction incites a raised brow from Hajime. Normally, Tooru would soak in the compliments, especially when it’s from Hajime who’s always so stingy when it comes to him, so for him not to throw a self-satisfied comment here is strange.

“Not even a cocky remark? I’m surprised.”

“I—” Tooru starts but holds his tongue.

“What’s wrong?”

Tooru shifts uncomfortably in his seat, eyes lowered to his hands so he doesn’t have to look at Hajime’s puzzled expression. But he’s been putting this off long enough and there’s nowhere to run—the papers that await his signature won’t let him.

Lifting his gaze to meet Hajime’s eyes through the screen, he confesses, “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“What is it?” Hajime asks, straightening his back in his seat and jostling the iPad a little. It catches sight of the rows of empty stands behind him and Tooru is reminded that perhaps now is not a good time. It’s evening in San Juan and he can go to bed with a heavy heart but the last thing he wants is to be the reason Hajime starts his workday with a troubled spirit.

“Maybe—maybe tomorrow?” he suggests uncertainly. “You have to work.”

“I have time,” he tells him and when the setter hesitates still, mouth pressed into a hard line, Hajime calls out to him, “Tooru.”

He bites the bullet.

“So…you know how the last games were one of my best,” Tooru begins and doesn’t realize how desperately he’s wanted to get this off his chest until the words are tumbling out of his mouth. “The coaches said that they’ve been following my performance and are quite pleased with it and they talked about how I should have played in the qualifiers. I’ve been playing here for a few years now and I suppose it seems timely, especially since we just qualified for the Olympics. I—I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this…”

Tooru wrings his hands anxiously, knowing how seismic his next words can be.

“…that I was offered an Argentinian citizenship,” he finishes and it should feel liberating to finally say this out loud, but a different kind of weight settles on his shoulders. Tooru delivers the rest of the fragile truth, lock, stock and barrel. “They want me to play for them in the Olympics.”

The news almost knocks the wind out of Hajime and he sits up quickly, breathless when he says, “That’s amazing. Tooru, that’s—that’s really amazing.”

Hajime lets out a short laugh, not so much in disbelief but in certain expectation because Tooru has always existed beyond the ambit of normalcy and Hajime doesn’t only want to witness the trajectory of his greatness but show him that he is meant for this, and he is meant for more.

And although Hajime’s pride calms the storm in his heart somewhat, Tooru tells him in a small voice, “I haven’t given them an answer yet.”

“What are you waiting for?” Hajime probes, gentle as he notes the patent uncertainty that should have no place in Tooru’s eyes.

“It’s a big decision. I need time to consider.”

It’s not entirely the truth, Hajime can tell. But he doesn’t blame him, because sometimes reality is too daunting to face without the comfort of pretence. And Hajime understands, at the very core of his being Tooru can never stray from what his heart seeks.

“I have a feeling you already have,” he says knowingly.

“I still need time to talk to my parents, to you,” Tooru insists and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. He meets Hajime’s eyes with a forlorn gaze. “You know what it means Iwa-chan.”

“That you’re going to be an Olympian?” he offers, not trying to make light of the situation but to make him recognize how close his dreams are.

Tooru appreciates the gesture, but just as Hajime wants him to celebrate his success, he also needs Hajime to face certain facts, and it is that ambitions like these come at a hefty cost.

“Iwa-chan…Japan won’t be my home anymore,” he states softly, quiet anguish reflecting in his irises.

Hajime returns that certitude with another truth.

“Tooru, Japan hasn’t been your home for a long time now.”

Tooru’s breath catches in his throat. The hem of his shirt is creasing with how tightly he grips it.

“This is different. Giving up my citizenship…it’s—it’s a big thing.”

“Bigger than your dreams?” Hajime asks. Japan—Sendai—is the place where their lives started, but it doesn’t have to be where they stay. It may have held eighteen years’ worth of fond memories, but it has always just been a place. “It’s not Japanese blood that runs in your veins Tooru. I’m pretty sure it’s volleyball.”

So wherever it takes him, that’s where he’s meant to be. Hajime has always known that.

“Can I really do this?” Tooru wonders, and it’s a hidden permission to make things harder between them.

“I’m trusting you to,” Hajime allows, and because the hand in Tooru’s will only lead him forward and never hold him back, he tells him with conviction, “Don’t give up on this. Not for anything, not even for me.”

And maybe Hajime has also always known that this is an unavoidable chapter in their story, that Tooru playing in the foreign leagues and never returning to his home country is a prelude to a farewell to his roots. It’s happening now, a hazy future looking at them in the eye with a challenge, and Hajime thinks they should not run from it, because they bear scars of a love that hurts and there should neither be fear nor shame to bear more for a love that fights.

“It’s the Olympic stage,” Hajime carries on. “What you’ve worked so hard for, it’s finally within reach.”

“But you won’t be,” Tooru lets out, the words hanging like Damocles’ sword over their heads. Urgency bleeds through the screen when he blurts, “How will we—”

They die in his throat, the reality already so true he doesn’t want words to give them form.

“We’ll figure it out. We always do,” Hajime assures, his surety not stemming from what he knows the future will bring—because he doesn’t—but from knowing that he will try. He hopes Tooru will too. “I’ve told you before remember? That it’s not going to be easy. It hasn’t been and it still won’t be, but I’m sticking around. So you still with me?”

Tooru releases a breath along with a smile, like he shouldn’t have expected anything less, and nods.

“I’m still with you,” he promises and Hajime itches to pull him into his arms and show him what conviction feels like. Tooru leans forward in his seat, a fire kindled in his heart of hearts, and needs him to know, “You are so important to me Hajime. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

“I know.”

At this point, Tooru is positive he wants a life with Hajime, one where mornings are of the same hour, where breakfast awaits for two, where he presses close and welcomes warmth. He’s probably held this wish since some elusive moment in the past but now it’s a need that brands itself on the chambers of his heart.

But they have dreams to chase and victory to taste, so that reality—tender and craved—will have to wait.

With awakened resolve, Tooru asks, “Iwa-chan, before you go, can I ask you for one more thing?”

“What is it?”

“Wait for me until the Olympics.”

A bold request, Hajime thinks, but not one he hasn’t already accepted.

“And what exactly am I waiting for?” he banters.

Tooru offers an almost apologetic smile as he answers, “For just another handful.”

But it is not anything he should be sorry for.

“Then it better come with something grand,” Hajime returns, knowing.

“I guess you’ll see.”

There’s a wealth of experiences lying in wait for them, lovers with aspirations that take them to different places, and one of it will be a reunion on the world stage as partners and rivals alike. How many people can say that they’ve been granted such an opportunity?

“I’ll see you on the court when the time comes,” Hajime smirks. “Rival.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Tooru says right back, and his voice softens with infinite tenderness. “ _Mi amor._ ”

When Hajime meets the national team players for the first time an hour later, thinking to himself what an interesting bunch they are, he has a hunch that his coming days will be filled with an unusual type of liveliness. He conveys Tooru’s greeting to Hinata, catches up with Kageyama and shares updates with Ushijima about his final semester in California and the celebration of the completion of his apprenticeship, all the while entertaining eager questions from the team.

As Hajime starts the day feeling assured and anticipating another adventure, on the other side of the world Tooru falls into a slumber with a brimming heart.

The red string of fate extends a little longer, for two dreamers who need a bit more time to reach a few more stars before _together_ becomes shared in every sense of the word.

* * *

**_—tokyo, spring, 2020._ **

“It’s the forty-year Olympics curse at work. First it was the World War in 1940, then the boycott in 1980 and now this,” Tooru fires off at his tablet and takes a vicious bite out of his breakfast, two pieces of _medialunas_ for today. He drops the pastry onto his plate and swallows before regarding Hajime with acute disappointment. “And I can’t believe we’re the ones who get caught up in it. It’s so frustrating!”

The postponement of the Tokyo Olympics shook the sporting world and athletes from all around the globe are still reeling from the recent news. As for a certain setter and an athletic trainer, the consequences are no less severe.

Tooru’s disappointment is well-understood, especially when he had been selected to be the starting setter for the national team. It was an exhilarating moment for the both of them when he broke the news to Hajime, and Hajime could not have been prouder of his triumphs. Because Tooru belongs like this – with the stars, burning and blinding.

So the moment he got wind of the postponement, he texted Hajime right away and when the time difference allowed, lamented to him for half an hour straight. But even if force majeure has put their plans on hold, their spirit endures.

“Yeah, I get it. Everyone was bummed out when they heard the news. Practice was not as lively,” Hajime says sympathetically, glancing up to survey the players who are doing their own warm-downs in random groups, disheartened about the upsetting turn of events but no less determined. “But the teams are not letting it keep them down. How are you holding up?”

Tooru sighs, “We’re on lockdown now and the number of cases just keeps increasing. This is the worst. I’m an athlete Iwa-chan, I need to _move_.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Hajime frowns, hands stilling over his training kit midway into counting how many pieces of 3” x 3” gauze pads he has left. He gives that up to hold his phone properly so that Tooru can clearly see his warning look. “Just stay home. I can teach you some exercises to help with maintaining your form.”

His word of caution is met with an airy wave, soon replaced with mild concern, “Don’t worry, I won’t. And I’ll take you up on that offer. But what about you? How are things over there?”

Hajime adjusts into a more comfortable position on the bench, recalling the recent spate of news and unrest before he answers, “It’s pretty crazy actually. People are wiping out the face masks and hand sanitizers from the stores. The government’s telling everyone not to go out as much as possible. And I’ve seen more and more people calling for a state of emergency. Honestly, I don’t know if we’ll still be allowed to hold practices.”

“Expect the worst,” Tooru comments bleakly, taking a swig of his _yerba mate_. “Also—”

“Iwa-san, are yer gonna help me with my stretches today?” an unmistakable Kansai dialect flows smoothly into their conversation and suddenly, Tooru sees a blonde slide into view next to Hajime. The fellow setter notices him in the video call and offers him a cordial smile, “Oh hello, Oikawa Tooru-san.”

“Hello Miya Atsumu,” he greets back, although it sounds a little clipped. Out of all the Japanese national team players he’s been virtually introduced to or already know, the Inarizaki alumnus is one he can’t quite get along with yet.

“Aren’t you guys on lockdown now?” Miya asks and Hajime wonders why he couldn’t wait till he’s done with his call.

“Yes.”

“Shame.”

“Don’t keep your hopes up. You might soon find yourself in a similar situation for all you know,” Tooru returns flippantly.

“Perhaps,” he shrugs. “But while we still can have practice, Iwa-san, are yer gonna help me with my stretches? My lower back’s been bugging me recently.”

“In a bit,” the athletic trainer says and his attention is caught by yet another voice.

It’s one of their liberos, Yaku, who calls out to him.

“Iwaizumi, here’s your k-tape,” he says and hands him a roll of bright blue tape. “Thanks for letting me try it out. I like it, so I bought my own.”

The camera angle shifts a bit, obscuring part of Hajime’s face, and Tooru hears him say, “Don’t mention it. Glad it worked for you,” before the equipment joins the rest in his training kit.

“Can I try it too?” Miya wonders.

“You don’t use k-tape,” Yaku points out and Tooru wishes he could see the libero’s expression when he quips, “And if you have time to bother Iwaizumi, why don’t you give me a few serves? I don’t believe they’re as mean as I remember.”

Miya rises to the challenge with a quirk of his brow and wearing a smirk, “Is that so? Let me jog yer memory then.”

He won’t back down against their formidable receiver, who’s already smugly sauntering back to the court as he speaks. When Miya hops off the bench to follow, Hajime remarks, “Miya, what about your back?”

“Just for a while!” he grins.

Hajime’s not too fond of his players continuing any strenuous activities after an already draining practice but Yaku’s a sensible guy and he can trust him to wrap it up before they get carried away. He witnesses Miya stealing the volleyball cart that Sakusa’s in the midst of putting away and spots Kageyama standing by the net, seemingly engrossed as he goes about his stretches with the resistance band secured around the pole.

Come to think of it, he’s been at it for a while now, longer than necessary in fact. And he’s sporting a brooding expression, likely still mulling over the postponement of the Olympics. Hajime regards him with an understanding look and breaks him out of his musings.

“Kageyama, I think that’s enough stretching for you. Why don’t you call it a day?”

Tooru perks up curiously at the sound of the name and hears a distant “ _Osu!_ ” from his former junior, probably in embarrassment at having been caught in deep thought. He trots away with his resistance band and Hajime glances back at his phone for hardly a second until Bokuto’s voice cuts in.

“Iwaizumi! We’re going to get Kindaco _takoyaki_ later. Komori says they might not open as often as before. Wanna come?”

“No I’m good, thanks,” he shakes his head and once he’s finally left to his own device, returns to Tooru while plugging in his earpiece. “Sorry.”

He’s met with an amused smile and a cheeky observation, “Iwa-chan’s so popular.”

Frankly, he _is_ rather well-liked by the team. He remembers the warm welcome he received and how natural it had been to understand them as players and eventually consider them as friends. Granted, they get into all sorts of shenanigans and clamour for his attention in the most bizarre ways and for reasons that bewilder him sometimes, but there’s never a dull moment with them around and they’re a strong team he wants to do his best for. Hajime owes it to them and this job that the days are filled with meaning and roll by quickly.

“Maybe I’m just good at my job,” he smirks. “And you had your time in high school.”

“You can have your glory. I’m not jealous,” Tooru says easily and leans back in his seat. Truth to be told, he’s proud of the rapport he’s built with the team and Hajime excelling in what he does is not something he ever doubts.

They have both carved out their own paths—apart, but not really—and grown into people who are respected and ready for what life next presents them.

And even if Tooru is jealous, it’s never over his accomplishments, but the fact that these people are closer to Hajime in a way he yearns to be. It has been far too long and it should make him weary, but as the passage of time is immutable, so is his soul when it comes to the things he loves.

“I just miss you,” he admits softly, fingers circling around his almost-empty cup of _yerba mate_. “I really wanted to meet you in July.”

“I want to see you too,” Hajime tells him, chest tightening with a need so fierce. “For now, promise me you’ll stay safe?”

“I promise. I hope they’ll let us travel. Maybe I can go back for Christmas,” Tooru suggests, wishing for something sooner that he can look forward to, and Hajime hums thoughtfully at the idea.

“I’d like that. We’ll see how it goes.”

“Yeah, I guess it can’t be helped,” he resigns to it. His eyes flicker up to Hajime’s, holding them with a soulful gaze, and asks, “Sorry Iwa-chan, can you wait a little longer?”

He doesn’t have to guess what he’s referring to because it’s all he’s been doing, and Hajime pretends to be exasperated when he replies, “You’re the only one who has ever made me wait so long.”

Tooru purses his lips.

“But you’re still with me right?”

Hajime finds no other answer except, “Still with you.”

* * *

**_—tokyo, summer, 2021._ **

_‘We overcame difficulties and stand here.’_

They know this better than most.

There are decades of challenges behind them, surmounted—some more gracefully than others—and now as they stroll hand-in-hand along the quiet walkways of Odaiba with the Rainbow Bridge illuminated against the almost-midnight sky in the distance and Argentina crowned bronze medallists of the Tokyo Olympics, victory sits rightfully earned in the palm of their hands.

This is true even if Japan had lost to Argentina in the quarter-finals because Hajime thinks that victory comes in many forms. To have fulfilled their long-standing promise to give their all when they faced each other on the court again was one of them, and to witness the pure ecstasy and pride on Tooru’s face when the bronze medal hung around his neck was another.

As for Tooru, who can now proclaim that he has made his mark on the world stage, victory is two-fold, one of which has yet to come true. He hasn’t forgotten his request from those years ago and he believes he has made Hajime wait long enough.

No matter how he thinks about it, he will always be stricken with a pang of guilt at having put off their future, but he could not bring himself to ask for this when both of their dreams were just unfolding. Even so, they held fate’s strings with loyalty and care and ended up here. And Tooru thinks it is finally time to welcome the future, as selfish and scary the notion may be.

Odaiba is peaceful this late into the night, a stark contrast to the throngs of locals and tourists fluttering about during the day, and it is Hajime who breaks their comfortable silence and gently nudges Tooru’s shoulder to ask, “What are you thinking of?”

His question breaks him out of his reverie and Tooru quickly responds with a tease, easy and playful for now.

“Thinking of how our kiss was caught on national television,” he says with a smile, squeezing Hajime’s fingers. “Do you know people are talking about it online? They’re saying what a touching reunion it is, to meet your childhood friend and teammate turned lover and rival. Romantic huh?”

The memory puts a blush on Hajime’s cheeks since he never expected himself to be so bold and unheeding in public. But Tooru searching for him in his delirium after the last whistle of the bronze medal match and pulling him into a sweaty embrace had robbed him of coherent thought and any last shred of restraint.

There was nothing in his mind but the triumphant look on Tooru’s face, hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks flushed a rosy shade as they held each other for a briefest moment. The deafening cheers resounding in the arena became white noise and the flurry of gleeful hair-ruffles and celebratory hugs blurred in the background. Their smiles were the last thing they saw before they surged forward to kiss, square on the mouth and for all to see.

Hajime had been so proud, and the satisfaction welling in his chest was far more potent than the mortification of being caught on camera. They have, after all, got this far together come hell or high water, and they should wear that pride like a badge.

“Not sure about romance, but it is one hell of a ride,” Hajime teases back.

Tooru chuckles, then sighs, looking to the front where the colours of the rainbow paint the twin arches of the bridge in brilliant hues. They stand magnificently against the cloudless sky, resplendent among the thousand city lights of Tokyo.

“Time flies, doesn’t it?” he wonders out loud.

There are stretches when it feels like it crawls, but roaming aimlessly through Odaiba now, he realizes that there is nothing as ruthlessly fast as time.

“It does,” Hajime agrees, noting Tooru’s wistful tone.

“I don’t want it to slow down yet,” the setter confesses. “I still have something that I want to make happen.”

He slows their walk down to a stop and faces Hajime, who looks curious but not surprised. Under the dim light of the streetlamps, he holds Tooru’s gaze and stops waiting for their future, for Tooru pulls on fate’s strings to greet a reality where they can stand as champions today, tomorrow and the days to come.

“Iwa-chan, come with me to Argentina,” he breathes out, only discovering now how fast his heart is pounding. He takes Hajime’s hands in his, warm against his clammy ones, and meets his eyes with an impossible longing, “I know I ask so much of you already but…come with me to Argentina. I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I’m sorry I can’t do it in Japan but if you’re willing…maybe—maybe we can build a life together in Argentina?”

His request sits heavy between them, bearing the weight of their world in interlinked hands.

Tooru knows he is asking for the moon, as he tends to do, and finishes softly, “I know it’s a lot and if you need time to think, I understand.”

He lowers his head but Hajime catches him by the chin and tilts it up to keep their eyes locked.

“Idiotkawa, what are you so nervous for?”

“Because I’m asking you to uproot your life for me when you’ve already done so much,” Tooru blurts, eyebrows furrowing together. “But I don’t want to be apart from you anymore. I want—I want to wake up next to you in the mornings, I want to call you on the phone and ask you what you want for dinner, I want you right next to me. And I want it all so badly it makes me selfish.”

Hajime reads his emotions like an open book. He grazes his thumb along the back of Tooru’s hand, a gesture so calm it settles him somewhat.

“I’ve always known you’re a selfish guy though,” he says sagely and offers Tooru a small smile that still reaches the depths of his eyes. How he is not reeling from the immensity of this, only he understands.

Tooru draws in a breath and releases it faintly. He has always wanted the best, and there is no doubt in his being that Iwaizumi Hajime comes with it.

“I have chased what I love my whole life and now that I’ve made it here, I want to be able to say that I’ve truly got you too. I’m sorry for making you wait until now just to ask you to do something as big as this. But if you will…”

_If you will do that much for me again._

Doesn’t he know that he will do so much more?

“Tooru, let’s get married,” Hajime says with a quiet sureness that comes like the passing of the days. He watches Tooru blink rapidly, shock registering on his beautiful features at how Hajime drops an equally life-changing idea like he might have been talking about the weather. But Hajime thinks that this is just a natural progression of their shared existence and continues, “You’re already telling me to move to a whole other country with you and live the rest of our lives together so short of saying the actual words, it’s kind of like a proposal isn’t it?”

His question remains unanswered because Tooru doesn’t find the words for it – he wants them to live together yes, but Hajime goes a step further to formalize a pledge they’ve made to each other a long time ago. Untangling their fingers, Hajime reaches into his pocket and takes out a small velvet pouch.

“You’re just missing these,” he says, tipping the pouch for a pair of rings, golden and glinting, to fall into his opened palm. He tucks the pouch away and holds out the rings, a tangible promise.

“Iwa-chan…” Tooru whispers, staring at the rings with wide eyes as if they might disappear if he loses sight of them. His hands come up to cradle Hajime’s and he traces a finger over the cool metal, the curve of one larger than the other. “When did you get these?”

“After you told me you were offered a citizenship,” Hajime answers without missing a beat. In all honesty, when Tooru had told him to wait, he had an inkling what his partner had in mind for them. Whether it involved crossing the continents and oceans or not, through whatever means necessary, he knew that Tooru wanted to close the distance between them. And every fragment of his own soul could not want the same thing more.

Embarking on a mission to find the perfect pair of rings was merely the next thinkable course of action. And even if, by some bizarre twist of fate, Tooru harboured different ideas, Hajime wanted to be the one to propose a life together. But he knew that a relationship with Tooru was one that had to be filled with patience, so he got the rings first, then said the words second. Just the simple notion that they were both striving towards this future was enough to want to promise his life to him.

“I want the same things as you, and I’ve known it since then, probably even before,” Hajime assures him. For something so momentous, he finds his heartbeat steady, like the ebb and flow of the waves. “Now you’re asking me to go with you to Argentina and I’m asking for your hand in marriage, so I guess it kind of works out.”

Tooru doesn’t manage to say anything but a quivering, “Iwa-chan…”

Because the euphoria that floods him steals his words and renders him glassy-eyed. This moment is surreal, it gives him more than he thinks he ever deserves, but this is what is written in the scripts of the universe and Tooru has always been a child of the stars.

Tonight, victory is two-fold, both of which attained.

“What do you say Tooru?” Hajime asks, unbearably fond. “Will you marry me?”

It’s funny, how Tooru is the one who asks his question first, but turns out to be the one who answers.

“Yes. _Hajime, yes._ ”

That night, they don’t return to the Olympic Village but stumble into Hajime’s apartment in Meguro, kicking off their shoes in the entranceway and manoeuvring to the bedroom with wandering touches and languid kisses. There is time, not for words, but for attentive whispers against muscled lines and purposeful brushes along heated skin. With bodies bared they fall into their most familiar dance, slip fingers through each other’s to fit the lines of their palms together and create a rhythm that only they are attuned to.

They make love on a gentle summer’s night, an _a_ to the other’s _un_ unfathomably true, and as Tooru gazes up at Hajime, the shape of him cast in moonlight, he rides on the high that is meant for victors.

There is nothing to rush for but the rest of their lives and for this, they can take their time.

When morning breaks, Tooru will rumple the sheets and blink the vestiges of sleep away to look at Hajime’s sleeping figure next to him, bathed in sunlight, then at the ring around his finger that glistens when it catches the rays and he will think that the bronze of the medal pales in comparison to the gold that Hajime gives.

* * *

**_—buenos aires, summer, 2021._ **

The linen black tie of Tooru’s suit is a little rough beneath his fidgeting fingers. He stands by the teak desk in front of tall glass windows which offer him a view of the sun-kissed beach at the resort, an elbow in his hand. It boasts the lauded view of the ocean and the lush greenery of the palm trees towering under the late afternoon sun extends a welcomed tranquillity.

As he waits for Hajime to finish getting ready in the bathroom, his mind is already wandering to the few months that have brought him to this rustic yet stylishly modern hotel room at one of Buenos Aires’ beach resorts. He’s always fancied the idea of a beach wedding, so open and full of life, and Hajime himself grew to love the sea and the sand during his years in California. It was also, after all, where they ushered a new year as souls finally in sync.

Tooru will forever cherish the wave of support they received when they broke the news of their decision to their family and friends. Nobody could say they were truly surprised because nobody doubted that they would cross the lands and the seas for each other. And how could anyone fault an act so true?

After that, it had been a matter of pulling together quite possibly the most momentous and taxing event of their lives. The sister of one of Tooru’s teammates ran a small but established wedding boutique and because having to plan a wedding when the grooms-to-be were in different continents was something they’d rather avoid, Hajime and Tooru took up her services, a god-send really.

Of course, Tooru would not have asked Hajime to move to Argentina if he had not already laid the groundwork for the latter’s job prospects. He had shared his plans with Blanco and through some networking, sought out a potential spot for him as one of the club’s trainers. Hajime had been prepared to find work in an alternative environment, like a university or rehabilitation centre, but he was not about to pass up on an opportunity like this and while he eventually succeeded in securing the position, it was revealed that his Spanish needed some brushing up.

Staring out the window in his three-piece slate blue suit, Tooru wonders how the stars have aligned for them to be here and that perhaps all of this is too good to be true. What if someone barges through the door and exclaims that this is an elaborate prank on his life? What if he searches for Hajime in the room and finds it empty? What if he blinks and wakes up to discover that he’s just been dreaming everything?

But none of that happens. Instead, Hajime emerges from the bedroom, maddeningly attractive in his hunter green suit and breaks him out of his daze with a gruff, “Stop messing with your tie. You’re gonna loosen it.”

He strides over to Tooru and stands before him, reaching out to fix his tie, making sure the Windsor knot is shapely and tight. While his hands move to check the rest of his appearance, tugging on his vest and lapels of his jacket and adjusting his boutonniere, an arrangement of lavender and tallow berries, Tooru watches Hajime in silent wonderment.

He cleaned up well, short hair styled slightly to the side and dark green suit perfectly tailored to his figure. He smells good too, fresh with an undertone of pine. Hajime is undeniably handsome, Tooru has known that, but the understanding still knocks the metaphorical wind out of him when he gazes at him now, his husband-to-be. It sets off butterflies in his stomach and the tender ache it leaves in his chest has never felt so divine.

Tooru must be making an odd expression, for Hajime glances at him and immediately says, “What? Getting cold feet?”

“Of course not,” Tooru shoots back, though he knows he’s only messing with him. “I’m just nervous.”

Hajime’s teasing eyes soften into a look of endearment and he takes Tooru’s hand and admits unabashedly, “I’m nervous too you know. Was practically going crazy in front of the mirror just now.”

It elicits a short laugh from Tooru, who finds the image of Hajime with his hands in his hair and pacing the bathroom while muttering to himself in disbelief an amusing one.

“Really?”

Hajime cocks his head.

“A little.”

That tiny smirk on his lips, so terribly familiar, soothes his spirit. Tooru wants to savour the reality of here and now, from Hajime’s solid presence to this beautiful suite to the guests expecting their arrival on the beach.

With inexplicable contentment, he gives Hajime’s hand a squeeze and tells him softly, “I think I’ve been waiting for this my entire life.”

“Keep your vows for later,” Hajime quips and Tooru’s cheeks colour.

“That wasn’t part of my vows!”

There’s a knock on the door before it swings open to reveal the dapper image of their long-time friends and best men, both of them crisply dressed in the same black suit.

“Hey lovebirds, you ready?” Hanamaki grins.

“Everyone’s here,” Matsukawa informs with a lazy smile.

The appearance of their former teammates who bear news of their guests’ arrival brings to mind how they have made today’s event possible, and their unwavering support in the decade before that. Hajime and Tooru turn to each other, hands still linked and knowing smiles reflecting on their faces, and wants them to understand how thankful they are, even if they can only convey a fraction of it.

“Yeah, just—before we go, we wanted to thank you guys,” Hajime starts and joins them at the door, Tooru following in step. “For being here and helping out with the wedding. And for sticking with us all these years. God knows we’ve made you see some shit.”

“We really have, haven’t we Issei?” Hanamaki nods in instant agreement, grin growing wider. He doesn’t miss the chance to mess with the pair, now grooms-to-be. “The constant pining all through high school?”

Matsukawa keeps up the chain, “The thinly veiled homoeroticism that continued after?”

“The fear of literally nothing?”

“The—”

“Okay!” Tooru interrupts before they spend the next hour listing off their silly missteps and they themselves would know how they’ve blundered their way here. “We get it, we were young and dumb, but we’re—”

“Old and still dumb,” Hanamaki finishes for him.

“ _You’re_ old and dumb,” Hajime adds without hesitation and a completely straight face.

Obviously, there is nothing straight about this and the fact that they’re four grown men throwing childish remarks at one another before the matrimony of the two dumbest dorks in love makes them burst out in laughter. It feels like adolescence again, bygone days where their worst enemies were exams and respite came in the form of melting popsicles under the harsh summer sun.

How far they’ve come, to be looking forward to a union instead of practice.

“Seriously though, we’re happy for you two,” Hanamaki says at the end of a blissful sigh. “Like earth-shatteringly, over-the-moon happy for you. I’m pretty sure there’s no one who wants to see the both of you get hitched to each other more than us.”

“‘Sides, it’s not like we’re saying goodbye forever,” Matsukawa supplies. “You better show your faces in Japan at least once a year or you’re paying for our tickets here.”

“Yeah, don’t think you’ve seen the last of us.”

“We wouldn’t want that now would we?” Tooru lilts.

“Damn right.”

“Now come on,” Matsukawa says. “Let’s not keep the rest waiting.”

* * *

When they walk down the aisle lined with floral lanterns on the sand-coloured beach later, Tooru’s arm nestled in the crook of Hajime’s elbow, the view that welcomes them is unbelievably breath-taking.

Before him, the gentle waves of the ocean greet them from the limitless horizon to bring warm blue and white foam onto the shore. From the shoreline, they watch the scene of two lovers unfold, the sound of the waves an accompaniment to the soft music playing in the background. The ocean, now a friend, glistens under the brilliant sun, like the stars have visited the waters to congratulate them, the happiest men on the happiest day.

Around him, the faces of their family and friends—joyful, beaming, teary-eyed and thrilled—stir up the same emotions within him, but twice as intense. These are people they hold dear, family who have stood by their dreams and choices and friends who have etched a space in their hearts—their team from Seijoh who they have ruled the court with, fellow survivors who Hajime has fought academic battles with, amazing players from the national teams who are cherished comrades and rivals alike. All of them have travelled hours to join them today, and Tooru could not be more grateful.

Beside him, Hajime is there—wearing a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, his presence no longer miles away but right next to him today, tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. It makes Tooru feel so full, every single ounce of him filled with ineffable happiness, with a love that runs deeper than the ocean before them, spreads wider than the sky above, and is more profound than whatever the stars could mean.

As they stand at the arch decorated with pristine white voile and pale blue flowers that their Seijoh team would be proud of, the officiant invites their guests to be seated and conducts the ceremony in fluent Japanese and Spanish (another thing they are thankful for).

There is nothing quite like standing next to the one who completes your soul on the beautiful beach of Buenos Aires, the sea before them and some of their most important people behind, and Hajime and Tooru carve this moment into their hearts, not willing to let it flash before their eyes for all the waiting that they have done.

How could they have gotten this far? But how could they not, Hajime and Tooru—the epitome of a stubborn love that has endured shipwrecks and new dawns at the line of the horizon.

When it’s time to say their vows, they face each other—earth green against deep blue—and on this vast sandy stretch they feel so small as they take their biggest step yet. Their pledges to each other are not long, because there is no point trying to encapsulate the sheer magnitude of what they feel in a few sentences, and they have the rest of their lives to show for it anyway, but they do close their vows with the truest words.

_Love is dauntless…  
_ _恋は一徹。  
(koi wa ittetsu)  
_

Hajime tells Tooru that _I am your keeper as I am myself, and I promise not rose-coloured days but this unchanging heart_.

Tooru tells Hajime that _for my whole life I’ve only ever been sure of two things, one is volleyball and the other is you, mi amor y mi vida_.

 _…love is us.  
_ _恋は俺たち。  
(koi wa oretachi)  
_

All roads lead to Rome, and they may have stumbled and fallen and took the long way here but all that matters is that they are now slipping gold rings around the other’s finger, their names and their spirit engraved on its curve, smiles on their lips as they meet in a kiss.

* * *

Dinner is held back at the resort’s outdoor courtyard that overlooks the beach, framed by palm trees to offer them an intimate space and a picturesque view. Wooden cross-back chairs are arranged around round tables, tastefully set with pale-coloured floral centrepieces and lighted candles, and lines of string lights cascade overhead, resembling a starry sky.

As the sky grows darker and the guests fill their stomachs with rounds of food and drinks, the mood of the wedding picks up into a revelry. The newlyweds flit from table to table to entertain their guests, after promising their parents that they will continue to take care of each other (haven’t they always?).

They spend a bit of time catching up with Seijoh, so pleasantly odd to see their juniors all dressed to the nines, enjoying the fuzzy warmth that comes with reminiscing the good old days with found family and indulging Yahaba’s questions about their ambiguous relationship in high school (apparently, he has a lot). Tooru is coerced into downing a bottle of beer by the Japanese national team for whisking their dear athletic trainer away and Hajime chugs a glass of something he doesn’t quite remember the name of as part of a very enthusiastic toast by Damián.

Their modest dance floor is becoming more crowded as the Argentinians celebrate a marriage and welcome the addition of a new member to their team. They manage to pull a fair number of their Japanese peers to join them and Hajime and Tooru soon find themselves dancing with a tipsy Bokuto and a surprisingly impressive Hoshiumi.

The celebration continues into the night as glasses are raised and new friends are made, with an interesting mix of Japanese, Spanish and English filling the air. As the chattering and music carry on, not a lot of guests have noticed that the grooms have left their jackets draped over the backs of their seats and snuck away from the courtyard—just for a little while.

Yahaba, already red-faced from the wonders of Malbec, rushes up to Hanamaki and Matsukawa to ask in excitement, “Where are the groom and groom?! I forgot to ask them if they always sat next to each other on the bus out of habit or because Oikawa-senpai always leans his head against Iwaizumi-senpai when he falls asleep!”

“You know, I’d like to find out too,” Hanamaki says in mild interest, red wine sloshing as he tips his glass at Yahaba. “But if you ask me, I think it’s a bit of both.”

Matsukawa grins understandingly.

“They’re by the beach,” he replies and glances towards the shore, where the silhouettes of the couple in question can be seen against the waves. “Give them a minute.”

By the beach, Hajime and Tooru let the waves tickle their bare feet, fingers laced and shoes and socks sitting somewhere on the sand behind them. As much as they’re having fun with their guests, they thought to take a harmless break from the crowd to bask in the coolness of a moonlit beach.

Jacket-less and vests opened with their white shirt sleeves rolled up, they appreciate the crisp air against their warm skin, flushed from the drinking and laughing. Tooru’s tie is loose around his collar and Hajime’s own is left in his jacket pocket.

Tooru gazes down at his feet and wiggles his toes as the water washes sand over them. There’s a tiny innocent smile on his lips as he delights in this simple moment, and Hajime squeezes his hand.

“Tired?” he asks when the setter looks up.

Tooru shakes his head and answers with a bigger smile, “Hardly.”

The dinner, mostly drinking and dancing now, is ongoing behind them and the muffled celebration travels to their ears in soothing tones. Despite wanting to relish every second of today to its fullest, everything still passes by too quickly and while it has been an entire day of preparing and entertaining, Hajime thinks he can carry on well into the night.

“Me too.”

They lapse into a peaceful silence, tucked between the sound of the waves and the distant partying, their figures backlit by the soft lights from the courtyard. There is nothing much to say, having said so much in the past twelve hours and understanding that whatever exists in their hearts is felt just as immensely by the other. All that’s left is to enjoy each other’s steady presence and sear this moment into their memories.

So that’s exactly what they do.

They’re on the edge of the shore, far enough for the waves to tease the tips of their toes, but not enough to soak the rolled-up hems of their suit pants. It’s comfortable here, with the merriment in the background and the breeze from the sea. Today, the sun is gentle and the moon is kind.

Hajime looks to the side and sees his husband there. He closes the distance between them and unlinks their fingers to circle his arm around Tooru’s waist, bringing him near. Tooru does the same, lining his body against Hajime’s snugly, red string between them trailing in the sand and sea, wound around the lines of their little fingers.

Here they stand, before the vastness of the waters, as if challenging the ocean—watch us now, a breath away.

In these few quiet minutes where only they exist, foreheads pressed together and the sea breeze kissing their lips, Hajime remembers a promise to try. He remembers a question that no longer needs to be asked, but he asks it anyway.

“Still with me?”

Tooru smiles, heartfelt and sure.

“Always with you.”

* * *

**_————, ————, 20——._ **

Hajime rouses awake with a sliver of sunlight cast upon his torso. Eyes still closed, he turns on his side to pull Tooru towards him so that he can tangle their legs together and press his chest against his back, but pats around the mattress to find it empty. Cracking an eye open, Hajime makes a sound of disgruntlement, low with sleep, when the sheets are wrinkled but he doesn’t see his husband there.

Lazy mornings on the weekends are delightful, more so if he can nuzzle his face in the curve of Tooru’s neck, arm wrapped securely around his middle, and plant a trail of feather-light kisses along his shoulder blades until it tickles him awake. No such luxury today it seems. Maybe tomorrow.

Exhaling deeply, Hajime pushes himself off the bed to get ready for the day. He spends ten minutes in the bathroom before re-emerging to swipe his cotton t-shirt from the covers and pull it over his head. A yawn escapes him as Hajime makes his way to find Tooru, probably in the midst of preparing breakfast or something.

The red string of fate is short, so very short, and it crosses the mere metres from their bedroom to their kitchen.

He is greeted by the quiet view of Tooru’s back, muscled underneath the thin graphic tee he wears, slightly long for his frame that the hem sways as he busies himself with the coffee powder. Hajime notices that Tooru had not bothered to at least put on a pair of shorts and is clad in his boxer briefs. He drinks in the sight of it and pads over to join him.

“’Morning,” he murmurs as he steps into the sunlight that filters in from their small kitchen window, where a few vibrant succulents are basking in the warmth.

Tooru hums appreciatively when Hajime slides up next to him and drops a kiss on his clothed shoulder.

“Good morning Iwa-chan,” he chirps.

A hand slips underneath his shirt and snakes around his lower back to rest on the jut of his hip.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” Hajime complains and Tooru finds his sleep-laden, vaguely sullen voice adorable.

“It’s almost 9:30 sleepyhead,” he grins, finishing up the cup of coffee and handing it to Hajime, who reluctantly releases his hold and takes it with a grunt in response. With the toaster ticking away behind, Tooru nurses his own mug, almost lukewarm now.

9:30 is pretty late by their standards since they have always been early-risers and Hajime just happens to be the one who sleeps in today. He would have preferred it if Tooru had simply stayed in bed but he supposes that the view of his husband’s back while he makes them breakfast is also a perfect way to start the morning.

As he lets the caffeine work wonders for his mind, Tooru reaches out to run a gentle hand through his hair absentmindedly, catching the little strands at his nape between his fingers in an affectionate gesture. In the fading drowsiness of daybreak, Hajime is more amenable and allows the moment to stretch, like the golden stripes against the tiled kitchen floor.

Perhaps time is both merciless and merciful, that it has made them wait but rewarded them handsomely.

“Do we have plans for today?” Hajime asks.

“I was thinking we could go to the supermarket,” Tooru suggests, setting his cup on the counter. “Our fridge is almost empty.”

“After breakfast we can take a shower and then go?”

“Okay,” Tooru’s lips curve into a small smile, hoping that the shower could be taken together.

Hajime places his mug next to Tooru’s and wonders, “So what’s for breakfast?”

“Toast.”

“Exquisite.”

“Yeah, aren’t you lucky.”

The answer is simple, a sentiment that Hajime holds whenever they step into their humble abode and into each other’s arms, whenever they wake up and know that the other end of fate’s string is not far. He takes Tooru’s hand and draws him towards him, slotting their bodies together.

“I am,” Hajime whispers, inexhaustibly true.

His hands come around to settle on the small of Tooru’s back and he presses their hips close. Tooru welcomes the warmth and slides his palms over Hajime’s shoulders, eyes slipping shut as Hajime touches their lips in a tender kiss.

There is no rug to pull from under their feet, no riptide against them, no riots in their hearts, just the hint of coffee and homecoming on their lips.

The kiss is short, an intimate moment shared against the counter of their modest kitchen as the rest of the city carries on with their day outside. They could be anywhere in the world at any point in their lives from here on out, and it would make no difference, for they are with each other in spite of it all, because of it all.

And where they go next does not matter, because for them who fell in love in Japan, crossed boundaries in America and built a life together in Argentina, home— _truly_ —is not a place. Home is here, where their heart is, and Hajime and Tooru have long since left their hearts in the hands of the other.

They fit together like how the sky meets the earth at the horizon, a natural phenomenon, an inevitability of the days.

**_[ here. ]_ **

**Author's Note:**

> thank [you.](https://twitter.com/project_ecto)
> 
> Edit: [olympic kiss](https://twitter.com/crowwinggs/status/1313954512898580482?s=20)


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